Coming To Terms
by fullmoonrisin
Summary: The team battles what remains of Samaritan while working new numbers. In the process, they must come to terms with the implications of the machines actions leading up to Samaritan's downfall. Follow up to A Different Scenario. Contains Shoot! Please R & R!
1. Chapter 1

I own nothing! Enjoy

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Chapter 1

For as long as humans have existed, everyone has had a place that they go to in order to be alone with their thoughts. Philosophers, poets, scientists, and countless other people have relied on these places of solace for centuries. For Archimedes, as well as a lot of modern folk who fancy themselves deep thinkers, it was a bath tub. For Michaelangelo, it was painting.

Sameen Shaw, on the other hand, preferred to dwell on her thoughts with intense physical training.

She was alone at the present moment…pounding away at a defenseless sparring dummy as Bear watched from the comfort of his bed. Each punch was punctuated by a grunt of effort and just a little more sweat was soaked up by her tank top.

It had been three weeks since the fall of Samaritan and in that time, Shaw could often be found brooding in the subway with some targets or a punching bag. That is, when she wasn't fending off the remnants of Samaritan's operatives, working numbers, or spending time with Root.

It was Root's machine God that had her so troubled.

At the time, she had gladly sacrificed herself when the time came in the stock exchange facility; but now, she was a bit irritated about the whole thing.

Sure, she was happy to be alive. There was also the fact that she had always known in some way that she was a puppet of the machine's design, but Shaw had never _felt _like it. Not until now. And it wasn't even so much the danger she had been put in. In fact, she kind of enjoyed that part. It was that she didn't actually _want _to die and the machine had apparently taken a gamble with her life for a bigger purpose. A purpose it hadn't seen fit to inform its own creator or interface of.

She continued to reign down furious punches and kicks on the dummy, partially disappointed that it couldn't fight back. She had half a mind to go looking for a stray Samaritan operative to fight. In her mood, she needed to beat the crap out of somebody. Not something.

After another round of assaults, she stopped, walking over to the towel draped over the bench and wiping her face with it before draping it around her neck. Bear got up from his bed and went to her with his tail wagging as he whined softly.

"What's up, buddy?" She reached down to scratch between his ears in that place that always put him on cloud nine. His eyes drooped shut and he was docile for a moment until she spoke to him again. "Does my boy need a work out too?"

At his sudden burst of excited barks, she flashed him the smile that was reserved solely for him and walked off to retrieve one of his toys. Harold and Finch were working a number, and Root was working her cover job. This would have to do until she got her crack at some action.

They played like that for a good half hour until Bear went stock still with his ears perked up; detecting something that Shaw could not. They all knew that posture of alertness well. Though, at this point, he was not showing any overt signs of hostility. As soon as he went stiff, Shaw turned toward the subway entrance and pulled a weapon that she kept taped underneath Harold's desk…much to his chagrin.

Moments later, Reese and Finch emerged into the dim lighting looking a bit rung out. John's usual pristine appearance was marred by the fact that his over coat was frayed and the top few buttons of his white dress shirt were missing. Finch's glasses sat slightly askew on his face and his thin hair was a bit singed at the ends. His slacks had a hole above the right knee.

Shaw raised a concerned eyebrow, "You guys look like shit. What the hell happened?" She lowered her gun and put it back in its place, ignoring Harold's look of disapproval.

"Let's just say it was a blast." John quipped gruffly.

"Second question," Shaw started irritably once she'd ascertained that neither Finch nor Reese was in need of any medical attention, "Why the hell didn't you call me?" Her mild glare was directed at John. "I'm sitting down here, bored, and you're off having all the fun."

"Told you she'd be mad, Finch." Reese stated under his breath, giving a slight smile at Shaw's annoyed expression.

Eager to get down to the business at hand, Finch put an end to the banter. "You wouldn't have made it in time, Ms. Shaw. You're boredom aside, we have a bigger problem. Samaritan's leftovers have devised a new strategy. They seem to be exploiting how the machine thinks."

At the mention of the machine, Shaw remembered why she had been so lately; why she had been only minutes ago and she felt it rise to the surface. None of them thought that the machine would sacrifice one of its own, and Harold had freely admitted after the whole ordeal that he had taught the machine specifically not to assign different values to people…to its assets, but it had.

She scoffed, "Oh please. We don't even know how the machine thinks, Harold."

Finch frowned in response, looking at her with that analyzing gaze of his. Reese stayed in the background as he preferred not to get involved in this particular argument.

"Ms. Shaw, I will admit that there are things about the machine's recent behavior that I also find troubling, but now is not the time."

"She threw me under the bus and lied to you and to Root about Her plans. Think about that Finch. The machine. Lied. When is the time to deal with that elephant in the room, exactly?" Shaw stood firm, arms crossed over her chest and fixing Harold with a hard gaze that conveyed her irritation and dared him to say anything further. In this instance, Finch remained unmoved, though his gaze conveyed his sympathy for Shaw's plight.

"After we deal with the fact that Samaritan's agents are using the machine's system for selecting numbers to set traps for us."

As if to break up the tension in the room, there was a beeping at Harold's computer and they all turned to see a picture of the new number. Shaw gave the profile a quick read before she turned on her heel to address Harold a final time.

"I'm taking this one."

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That's it for Chapter 1. Hope you like it so far. Next chapter will be a longer one. Please R&amp;R!


	2. Chapter 2

Hello again! Thanks for reading! I do have to warn you before I start this chapter. If you haven't read A Different Scenario, you should read it before this story to avoid confusion. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! R&amp;R!

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The number, it turned out, was a CPA by the name of Don Rezniczek. He was a somewhat scrawny middle aged man with a graying brunette hairline receding faster than Napolean's army at Waterloo, and he was boring.

Shaw had been following this man for the better part of the day and the only thing of note she had observed as he ran various errands was that he dressed far fancier than any accountant she'd ever laid eyes on. His Italian business suit stuck out like a sore thumb against the middle-class wage of his occupation. It left Shaw to wonder how exactly he could afford such a nice wardrobe. The answer to that might just be why his number had come up.

After starting her reconnaissance in the financial district, and then meandering through midtown, Shaw recognized that Mr. Rezniczek was leading her toward Brighton Beach. In the absence of any other possibilities gleaned from the day's work, she began to wonder if maybe this man wasn't asking to be mugged by heading into such a shady neighborhood in a nice coat.

"Is everything all right, Miss Shaw?" Harold's voice sounded in her right ear, effectively cutting into her train of thought. "Just checking in."

"Unfortunately," Shaw sighed, "This guy's about as boring as watching a coma."

"I wouldn't be dismissive of any danger just yet. I took the liberty of going through his files. There are a number of red flags….Miss Shaw?"

On her end, Shaw had a death grip on a would-be pick pocketer's wrist and held it in a submission hold as she spoke to him in her low, threatening tone. All the while she kept an eye on her objective.

"You picked the wrong person. I'll give you five seconds to go away and we both pretend this didn't happen." The man's fearful expression told her that he would comply and she released him. As soon as he was let go, the street urchin ran off in the direction he came from.

"Ms. Shaw, is everything all right?" Came Harold's worried voice as he listened to the scuffle. Once the man was gone, Shaw resumed following her mark and answered Finch.

"Sorry about that. You were saying something about red flags? Anything in those red flags that might explain an accountant wearing an expensive Italian suit? Either this man's making some serious side money or he's Donald Trump's accountant."

"Yes, actually." Harold spoke as he sat at his desk looking over the files he'd collected.

"It seems our Mr. Rezniczek had two million dollars transferred into his account one week ago from an as yet undisclosed offshore account."

As he said this, Shaw realized that the number was walking up to a group of mafia men. This couldn't be good, but she still decided to wait just a bit longer to see where they went. Her hand had made its way to the gun inside the pocket of her coat and she flicked the safety off just in case what happened in the next few moments called for it.

The group in front of her crossed the street and made their way to a Russian bakery. Not just any Russian bakery, but one that the team had at one point learned operated as a front for illegal gambling.

This should be interesting.

"Hey Harold…I'm gonna have to talk to you later. I'll be busy playing some poker."

Harold's brow raised, intrigued at her statement. Satisfied that the situation was under control for the moment, he signed off as well.

"Enjoy yourself, Miss Shaw."

Shaw made her way up to the bakery and pretended to window shop for a couple minutes. Once she was satisfied that Don was not in any present danger, she took some cash out of the nearby ATM and snuck around the back.

She took a moment to take her beanie off and pull her hair out and toss it a bit then she knocked on the door and put on the sexiest smile she could manage. When one of the Russians answered the door and looked at her with a somewhat befuddled expression, wondering what an outsider was doing out here, she offered him the best bedroom voice that she could manage.

"Any room for one more?"

The man's face lit up with a grin that Shaw could only describe as predatory as he quickly moved aside and ushered her into the back room. When she entered, Shaw found that the air was already thick with cigars and booze, and the lighting was dim as well. Looking around, she noticed that the one seat left open was conveniently located next to Mr. Rezniczek. With a confident smirk, Shaw headed straight for the empty seat.

Perfect.

* * *

"Hello, Harold." Root greeted, coming to stand behind him. With little regard for Finch's personal space, the hacker leaned over his shoulder to see what was on his monitor. It appeared to be code of some sort. Specifically, _Her _code. No doubt Harold had been pondering the workings of his creation again; wondering how she could've evolved enough to be able to keep her own secrets from them, and no doubt Shaw was the instigator of this latest bout of questioning. Speaking of…

Root looked around curiously. Noticing that Harold's only other company was Bear, who was currently asleep in his dog bed.

"Where is everyone?"

Finch looked up for the first time from the paper work scattered across his desk from his cover job.

"I'm afraid it's just been me for the afternoon. Mr. Reese stepped out some time ago to attend to personal business, and Miss Shaw is working on a number."

A brief look of nervousness flashed across Root's face. Since Samaritan's server had been deactivated, The Machine could no longer detect threats from its operatives as keenly as it once could. This was compounded by the fact that the remaining operatives were using pure intellectual strategy to lay their traps. As it was, The Machine's system for selecting numbers could not differentiate between legitimate persons of interest and potential threats until the threat revealed itself.

A moment after she felt the fear spike within her, it subsided. Sameen was a big girl. She could handle herself against a little trap. That much, Root knew, but the incident at the stock exchange had marked both of them. Root was left with a healthy fear of losing Shaw, Shaw had developed a resentment toward The Machine, and the team as a whole was left to wonder what this revelation about The Machine's methods and other existing agents meant for their little operation and for The Machine's agenda.

Harold seemed to have detected Root's worry and was quick to assure her.

"Not to worry, Miss Groves. This appears to be a legitimate number."

She nodded, coming to sit next to Harold. Bear slowly woke from his slumber and perked up when he realized her presence. He came to sit at her feet with his tail wagging and she gladly stroked his fur. The two of them had developed a mutual fondness for each other that seemed to be centered on the fact that they were both fond of Shaw.

"So, I see you're looking over Her code, again." Root spoke casually as she continued to pet the dog.

Finch nodded solemnly, "I just don't understand it."

Root didn't know if he meant Her, The Machine's actions, or everything they went through leading up to and following Samaritan's defeat. Still, she listened.

"I can understand why the machine would keep its plans secret. It made tactical sense to do so in order to keep Samaritan from discovering the plan and taking measures to protect itself."

This was something Root hadn't thought much about; she had been more concerned with The Machine sacrificing one of its assets. Still, now that she was thinking about it, it did make sense.

"But…?" She asked, sensing that there was more on Finch's mind.

"I don't understand why it apparently sacrificed Miss Shaw." He sighed. "Twelve years ago, I sat in Central Park teaching the machine how to play chess. 'Don't assign people different values.' That was the last thing I attempted to teach her on that day. It appears, however, that the machine did exactly that at the stock exchange."

Root cracked a half smile, finding a sad bit of humor in the whole situation. "I look to her as a God, you think of her as your child; but at the end of the day, Harold, she's an AI. You were able to teach Her about chess because the capacity for learning strategies is part of her programming, and placing higher value on some people than on others is an inherent aspect of strategy."

Harold, who had been cleaning up his desk, nodded at the hackers words.

"Yes, that's true, but I had hoped she could still learn to value people as a human."

"For what it's worth, I don't believe she sacrificed Sameen." Root stated, hoping to cheer Finch up a bit. He wasn't exactly fun to be around when he got mopey.

"Out of all of us, she had the highest chance of survival. I know you don't think much of my blind devotion to The Machine, but to me, the fact that she chose the person with the best chance shows that maybe she does care." At seeing the look in Finch's eyes like he was ready to argue her point, she added, "Why else would She have sent agents to the stock exchange _just _to rescue Sameen?"

Harold looked as if he were considering her words carefully for the next few moments. She did make a good point. The machine _had _taken measures to ensure that the team survived the stock exchange and the raid on Samaritan's warehouse. However, it did so at cost to many other agents; that still stuck in Harold's mind. No matter how logical the choice seemed, he could not shake the sense of apprehension that the machine's willingness to sacrifice its agents and the apparent prioritizing of his team caused him.

"Need I remind you, Miss Groves that those same agents were among several that died so that the five of us could get out of the warehouse alive?"

Root had a retort on her tongue, but apparently, The Machine had had enough of listening quietly to their conversation. Much like it did when it informed them of Shaw's fate; the machine began to pull up various clips of Finch: Finch in the park playing chess, Finch looking at a security camera speaking, Finch walking down the street. Again, the text box appeared, delivering the only solace the machine could provide its creator.

I AM SORRY.

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Shaw sat at the poker table scanning the rest of the group with a critical eye. She wasn't just concerned with the current game; she was also trying to discern who at the table would be the likeliest possible threat in the event that this game went sideways.

The man sitting across from her stuck out the most. He exuded an air of authority. That meant he was in charge of this group. Shaw reasoned that he was most likely packing a weapon, but would be more likely to sit back and watch his lackies take a crack at anyone before he stepped in himself. That left the other three people. There was the man who had permitted her into the room. Sure, he was tall, bulky, and imposing. In the short time she'd been around him, however, Shaw sensed a certain incompetence from the man. That left the other two. Of them, one man was laid back and appeared thoroughly disinterested in anyone sitting at the table as he kept his face shoved behind his cards. The other man was tense and seemed perpetually agitated. He had already snapped at a few jokes from his buddies twice since Shaw had sat down. This man would likely be her first threat.

On the poker side of things, Shaw watched to see who of these men thought they had a good hand. She hadn't faired particularly well herself up to this point, but that was partially by design.

She looked down at her own cards once more. It was shaping up to be a nice hand this round with a king, a queen, and a jack. Still, she folded when her turn came moments later. She wasn't ready to draw too much attention to herself yet.

Discreetly leaning over to her left, Shaw called, "Hey, Don isn't it?"

The man jumped just slightly and looked at her with surprise, possibly wondering how she knew his name.

"I've seen a couple of your ads." She whispered, "So listen, how about a drink after this game?" She gave him her best "come hither" look, a look that always took considerable effort for Shaw. His reaction was not one she'd expected, but was interesting nonetheless.

"I'm married." He whispered rather dismissively.

Shaw's eyes flitted to his left ring finger. No ring. She thought back to his profile; there was nothing about a wife there either. He was lying, but why? Perhaps he was already aware of a target on his back. If so, his casual manner during her surveillance hid it well, and his willingness to carouse with the mafia suggested that he did not expect a threat from him.

Shaw pressed harder.

"Oh, come on, big guy." She winked, "I don't see a ring. Plus, you seem like the kind of guy who likes a little adventure." She tilted her head to indicate the table full of Italian mob members. Don looked at her, then back to the table, and somewhat reluctantly agreed. Then the hand was over and it was Shaw's turn to deal.

"Hey sweetie." Root's flirty voice sounded in Shaw's right ear, causing her posture to stiffen slightly as she held the deck of cards in her hand. So much for not drawing attention to herself.

"Root." She said, doing her best to disguise the word as a sneeze.

On her end, Root chuckled. "Oh, subtle. So how's it hanging?"

In response, Shaw finished shuffling the cards and addressed the table; emphasizing the first word just slightly enough that Root would know it was directed at her.

"_Okay, _boys. How about a little Texas Hold 'Em?" She smiled her own flirtatious smile at the table, knowing Root would have something to say about her game of choice. She wasn't disappointed.

"Now _that's_ a card game." Root chimed. In fact, it was the only poker game she really knew. One doesn't grow up in Texas without knowing at least that much.

The men were approving of Shaw's choice and she took the opportunity to subtly address the hacker on the other end of the comm once again.

"I thought you'd like it."

With the game underway, Shaw was freed up just slightly to be able to speak to Root without notice.

"Anyway, Sameen. I was calling to check up. It's a little lonely here with just Harold. I stopped and picked up some new toys today." Shaw blushed slightly at the meaning of her comment. Their toys were not the usual; they dabbled in whips, chains, and tazers. They were toys just the same, though.

"…was wondering when you'd be free?" The tail end of Root's sultry voice filtered into Shaw's mind and she realized that she must've zoned out after Root's previous comment. Luckily, it was not her turn in the game yet. In response, she smirked, hiding her mouth from view of the others behind her hand. She found in recent weeks with Root that she enjoyed playing the waiting game.

"Don't wait up."

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That's two! Hope you enjoyed it! Remember, please review!


	3. Chapter 3

Hello and welcome to the third installment of Coming to Terms. As always, enjoy the read! I own absolutely nothing relating to the Person of Interest plot or characters.

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Chapter 3:

It had been about two hours into the poker game and a while since she had last heard from Root. Shaw had loosened up a bit and finally won a few hands. To paraphrase something Finch would probably say, what's the point of saving the world if you can't beat a few Ivans at a poker game? At present, Team Machine's assassin had just completed a full house and laid it down on the table when the time came to show cards. To the mobsters' frustration, she won the hand and a $2,175 pot.

"Sorry, boys." Shaw smirked rather unapologetically as she raked in the cash. When the more hot tempered Russian at the table looked at her as if he was going to start a fight, she flashed him a subtle yet dangerous look that told him it wouldn't end well. Slightly taken aback, he elected to keep his mouth shut for the moment.

"Having fun, Miss Shaw?" Harold's amused voice rang in her ear and she gave another strained smirk at the table before standing up.

"Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be in the ladies room." Walking off in the direction of the door that was designated as the restroom, she tossed a final comment over her shoulder. "And that money better be there when I get back." She could almost feel the hot-blooded one at the table rolling his eyes at her back. So predictable.

Once she was safely inside the restroom and he had heard the door shut from his end, Harold addressed her again.

"I trust everything is all right."

Shaw heaved a long-suffering sigh, and shot a glowering look at her reflection in the mirror. "It'll be better when everyone stops checking up on me. I got shot; it happens. I'm not an invalid." She was being petulant, that much she knew. She knew her team only wanted her to know they cared, but damn it, she wanted her independence back. She wanted everything back the way it was before the stock exchange.

Well, maybe not everything…

They were all better off with Samaritan offline. Also, had it not been for the team's dire situation that day, her and Root would still be sticking to their old routine of flirtatious banter and falsely embarrassed avoidance. At any rate, the past was the past. The present was waiting for a situation report from her at the moment.

"Anyway, it looks like our guy's got some friends in high places…friends of the organized Serbian crime persuasion."

"Indeed." Harold nodded, though Shaw obviously couldn't see it, "I was able to trace that offshore account to the Hotel Moscow crime syndicate. After a little more searching, I also found that Mr. Rezniczek was arrested twice in 2012 for illegal bookmaking connected to the syndicate's business. He got off both times under rather questionable circumstances."

Shaw considered the facts that Harold was telling her and connected those dots with what she remembered of John's run-in with the mafia that operated out of the bakery she'd been sitting in for the last two hours. Something wasn't right.

"And there 's Don's problem. This bakery isn't a front for Hotel Moscow. It's a front for the Drugonov family's gambling ring…great bunch of men, by the way." Shaw explained to Finch, dripping sarcasm from the tail end of her comment.

"Yes, I had forgotten that. Given what we know, then, it seems likely that Hotel Moscow may be on to his dealings." Harold looked up at an alert on his computer. What? The police were en route to Shaw's location! It could only be a raid on the gambling ring.

"…and, you've got another problem, Miss Shaw." Why hadn't the alert been triggered sooner? According to the map, there was a unit just outside the bakery. "The police will be there momentarily." Finch's voice was urgent, and even as he spoke, Shaw could hear the sirens and the tell-tale sound of a door being kicked open followed by shouts in Russian. Shit!

"Finch, I have to go now."

Shaw exited the bathroom and was immediately faced with the sight of six guns aimed at her while the officers demanded that she put her hands up. Luck seemed to be on her side, though. In the chaos she made eye contact with a surprised Detective Fusco and beckoned him over with a subtle jerk of her head.

He dismissed the officers who had begun tending to her as he walked over and Shaw spoke to him through gritted teeth.

"Lionel…I'm working."

He smirked slightly at the assassin while brandishing a pair of handcuffs in her face. "Yeah, so am I." He finished slapping the cuffs on her even as she rolled her eyes to let him know that she was thoroughly unamused by the situation. He sighed in resignation, "Who is it?"

In response to the question, Shaw's eyes drifted over to Rezniczek, who was standing handcuffed near the table a few feet away. Fusco walked over and grabbed him by the arm then grabbed Shaw with his other hand, announcing on his way out the door:

"These two are coming with me."

* * *

Some time after Shaw had left to track down her number, Reese had also left the confines of the subway in favor of the open air of New York. He had left Finch with the simple explanation that he had business and that much was true. He had taken the time to stock up on some necessities for his loft and pick up some dry cleaning.

There was, however, something else.

John had spent the better part of the day hunting for leads on the remaining Samaritan operatives. They had discovered weeks ago that the old warehouse that Decima/Samaritan had been using as a base of operations was left abandoned. The remaining forces had cleaned up any trace of the last battle that took place there and evacuated the building. The team had not been back since making that discovery, but John figured it didn't hurt to take a second look.

He had searched the building for well over an hour and was about to give up before he discovered the outline of a door in the floor of one of the rooms at the ground level. He had been quick to investigate and found that, as expected, the door led to an abandoned section of subway. In it, he found what was left from the clean up operation: bodies in various states of decomposition, weapons, phones, spent ammunition, and computers. After some time of sifting through all the junk, he managed to find a lead with a little help from Finch.

That led him to where he was now; perched atop an apartment building near the bridge in SoHo watching the doorway of another warehouse through the scope of a sniper rifle. He wasn't here to kill; now wasn't the time and he didn't know exactly what he was up against. He was here to gauge the remaining strength that they faced from Samaritan forces.

He watched several familiar faces come and go over the course of a few hours. It wasn't until he was about to leave that something interesting caught his eye. A black unmarked sedan pulled up to the building and several men and women in cheap suits exited.

These were not Samaritan agents. Reese could not be sure how he knew, but his hunches were rarely incorrect. He watched a bit closer to see if he could detect anything telling, but there was nothing that would give away who these people were. If he had to guess, he suspected they were government agents.

"Hey Finch?"

"What is it, Mr. Reese?" Finch limped over to the computer monitor and looked for any sign of trouble in the field. He became slightly confused when he couldn't find John anywhere.

"I'm in a camera dead zone, and so is Samaritan. Apparently, its agents were smart enough to hide from the machine."

"It does make sense." Finch replied, "We would have been able to track them down much sooner had they stayed in the open. I assume by your urgency, however, that you aren't calling to discuss matters of which we are already aware."

John kept an eye on the unfamiliar agents as he answered. Samaritan operatives had come out to greet them and they appeared to be having a meeting of sorts.

"I've got eyes on suits outside Samaritan's new hideout…four of them. I'm pretty sure they're from a different faction."

The only explanation Finch had was the same as John's. But Finch had made sure when he shut it down that there was no chance of bringing Samaritan back online, and all the computers on Samaritan's server were destroyed. The only trace of its technology would exist in the mind of anyone who still remained who had a hand in its programming. That rendered Samaritan's operatives utterly expendable to certain factions who might have an interest.

"Government agents?"

"I think so." Reese affirmed, "But I can't be sure."

It didn't quite make sense to Harold or Reese. Samaritan was useless to the government now, and its operatives were even more useless. The government had plenty of its own highly trained spies, assassins, and hackers. Unless…these operatives had information that they were selling to the government.

"How far away are you, Mr. Reese?" Harold asked, devising a plan to find out exactly who they were dealing with.

John thought about it for a moment, measuring the distance in his head. "I'm across the street and six stories up. So, about thirty feet away and sixty feet above."

"That won't do. You'll have to get closer, I'm afraid."

What exactly was Finch planning? Reese stood, grabbed his rifle, and made his way to the fire escape. He stopped to leave his rifle in the dumpster by the building. When he had made it safely across the street without being noticed, he sidled up next to the warehouse and asked:

"Exactly how close do I need to get, Finch?"

"As close as you can get without detection." Finch spoke, typing commands into his keyboard in preparation for the next step. "When you're close enough, I'll upload a worm to your phone. It will move from yours to all phones in the nearby radius and send all information from those devices back to my computer."

"And if this doesn't work?" John asked under his breath as he snuck in close.

"Then we'll just have to find another way."

"I'm ready, Finch." Reese stated quietly, crouching behind some crates near one of the suits.

With a few more strokes of his fingers across the keyboard, the worm was sent on its way and Finch waited a few moments for the information to begin coming in to his computer before giving John the okay to move.

"It's done, Mr. Reese."

As quietly as he came, Reese snuck away back across the street and retrieved his rifle. With that order of business done for the day, he began to make his way back toward Chinatown through the network of alleyways and side streets.

"So, where are we with Shaw's number?" He questioned.

"Ah, that matter has taken quite an interesting turn. Last I spoke to Miss Shaw, we discovered that our number appears to be offering his services to two rival crime families. That was just before the police raided the poker game."

John stopped in his tracks, "What about the number, Finch?"

"Not to worry—Ms. Groves informed me earlier that the machine arranged for Detective Fusco to be part of that raid. I would assume that Sameen made sure to keep the number with her."

John continued walking, taking in this update on their situation. He knew by instinct and experience, however, that this wasn't the important part of what Harold had to tell him.

"Go on. What about the number?"

From where he was in the subway, Finch nodded as he stooped to fill Bear's food bowl. "Right. As I mentioned, it seemed to be an issue of conflict of interest between two Russian Mafia syndicates. However, after my last conversation with Miss Shaw, I found something interesting when I looked over the payroll of both syndicates. The Drugonov family—some of whom were at the poker game—have one known Samaritan operative on their payroll."

"Well, it's safe to say he wasn't at the bakery. Shaw would've recognized him." John pointed out.

"Agreed." Having tended to Bear's needs for the moment, Harold came to sit back in front of his desk. "However, it does muddy the waters a bit."

* * *

In the back of Fusco's unmarked unit, Shaw sat working on picking her handcuffs. On one hand, she understood that the detective had to put on the façade of doing his job. On the other hand, it irked her greatly that she was having to pick her way out of the cuffs. It was even more irritating that he seemed to be enjoying watching her effort. She didn't even have to look to know that he was periodically smirking at her in the rearview mirror. She could feel it.

She could also feel the nervous vibes coming off Don from where he sat inches to her left. As she worked at her cuffs, she watched him. Every now and then, he would crane his neck around to peer nervously out the back window. Yep, he was definitely expecting somebody.

With a final twist, Shaw maneuvered her wrists free of the cuffs just as Fusco looked at her again and she smirked at his protests.

"Maybe if you would've cuffed me better, I wouldn't have gotten out." She teased the detective in her gravelly deadpan.

"I was being a gentleman!" Fusco cried with indignant defensiveness as Shaw addressed Don, who was so engrossed with the view out the back window that he seemed not to have noticed her escape from confinement.

"You expecting someone?" She asked, looking out the window herself to see that they were being followed. She had seen that car on the way out of the bakery. No doubt they had been waiting to make a move before the cops raided the place. It was a midnight blue Mercedes-Benz. If she had to guess, Shaw would say that the plates were stolen.

The driver knew what he was doing. He had hung back far enough to avoid rousing Fusco's suspicion, though Shaw was reasonably certain that, even if he wasn't suspicious, he had at least seen the car.

Or maybe he was.

It occurred to Shaw as she paid attention to Fusco's driving that he was doing a heat run: random turns down side streets and alleys in an attempt to lose a tail.

That a boy, Lionel.

"Hey, psycho," He called out to Shaw after a few more turns. He was wondering whether or not to call in a little back up. He had no idea who was tailing him and what kind of conflict it might lead to if he didn't. On the other hand, he had something they didn't. Shaw. There was also the fact that calling in back up would risk exposing Shaw and the rest of the team. He still wasn't completely clear on what exactly they did, but he knew they helped people. And he knew they did so covertly.

"What exactly do ya think we're dealing with here?" He looked at Shaw in the rearview mirror and pressed the gas a little harder as the vehicle behind him began to get a little more aggressive.

"I dunno." Shaw answered casually, looking over at Don, who looked guilty, nervous, and petrified all at the same time. "I take it these are friends of yours?"

Don nodded, looking as if he might start crying at any moment. "Hotel Moscow hit men. Four of them; they always send four to a team."

Before anyone could say anything more, there was a sharp bump to the back of the car and everyone was roughly jerked forward. In response, Don began dry sobbing and pleading desperately with them. Shaw was annoyed.

"I don't wanna die! Please help me!"

"Damn it, Lionel!"

Ignoring Shaw, the detective whipped around in his seat to address Don.

"Hey! Hey, buck up. You're a man for Christ sakes. There is no crying allowed in this vehicle."

Don quieted down and continued to sit quietly and rock himself in the corner of the car as Shaw drew her weapon. She leaned out the window to take a shot, but found herself dodging a bullet aimed for her head.

"Punch it, Lionel!" She fired back two shots. One hit the middle of the windshield and the other passed through the hood on the passenger side.

Fusco complied, but not without complaint. "What do you want from me? This is a Crown Victoria!"

"Just drive." Shaw fired off two more shots. This time she took out the passenger side mirror and managed to hit the man riding shotgun in his shoulder. "And try not to get to the precinct until we lose these pricks."

A few more shots were fired into the back seat and Don hunkered down as low as he could get while Shaw returned fire. It went on like this for a few more minutes, but after exchanging a few more shots and spending a whole clip, Shaw managed to take out one of the tires on the Mercedes.

Lionel continued driving until they were near the precinct and then he wordlessly pulled into an alleyway. Shaw needed no further direction.

"We'll have to take a rain check on that drink." Shaw joked with Don, who was still curled up in something close to the fetal position as she got out of the car. She stopped next to the driver side.

"Good driving, Lionel." Shaw offered the rare compliment as her way of thanks for his help. He just smiled in response, "What do you want me to do with this one?" He pointed into the backseat at the high strung accountant.

"It would be best to keep him in protective custody for the time being. How you get that done is your business. Goodnight, Lionel."

"Goodnight, Sameen."

Shortly afterward when Shaw made her way to the end of the alley, her eyes locked on a nearby security camera that was focused on her. Her eyes narrowed as she was reminded that she wasn't alone. She felt the resentment well up inside her again as she stared the machine down.

"I am not a puppet." She spoke, just loudly enough for the machine to be able to pick it up. "_We _are not puppets."

With that, Shaw turned back down the alley and headed for the shadow map. She didn't feel like being under the machine's gaze any more than necessary.

* * *

And there's 3! Thank you so much for reading. It means a lot and I hope you like it! Please R&amp;R!


	4. Chapter 4

One small note before I get started: I confused myself in the middle of writing the last chapter. I corrected the issue, but from here on out, the _Russian _mafia factions will be called Hotel Moscow and Drugonov. To be clear, Hotel Moscow is the faction that the POI is the accountant for. Drugonov is the faction from last chapter's poker game. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

* * *

Chapter 4:

Root lurked in the shadows of the team's subway hideout. The only sounds around her were the thuds of Sameen's fists and legs making contact with a sparring dummy and the grunts of effort that accompanied those hits. Root was almost positive that Shaw was aware of her presence, but the other woman had yet to address her and the hacker wasn't ready to reveal herself quite yet. So, she continued to watch Shaw's brooding.

How long she had been at this, Root couldn't say. She did know, though, that the sparring session was already well underway when she had arrived to the subway nearly an hour ago. She had a strong hunch as to why Sameen was currently beating up on a defenseless dummy, as well. The machine had told her to be here and she suspected that this was the reason.

Another disagreement, no doubt.

Root smirked as she continued to watch Shaw from the shadows. She had resigned herself a long time ago to just how stubborn the assassin before her was. Sameen would learn to forgive the machine in time, though Root doubted that time was near. She never pressed the issue; knowing that Shaw would come to her about it on her own terms.

Still, she did have to admit, it was fun to watch Shaw's version of sulking.

Deciding that she'd had enough of being a passive observer, Root stepped from the shadows, watching as Shaw threw a few more punches before stopping to wipe the sweat from her brow with her forearm. Root missed the slight smirk that formed on Sameen's features when she finally stepped out, knowing that the hacker had been watching her for a while.

"Honey, as hot as it is to watch you kick the crap out of that dummy, don't you think a live opponent would be better?" Shaw's smirk grew in response as Root closed a little bit more distance behind her.

Yes. Yes, she did.

Shaw had been itching for some good hand-to-hand action for days now, and apparently she wasn't going to get it in the field quite yet.

"Are you volunteering?" Shaw turned, regarding the taller woman with a neutral expression. Although, her eyes were bright with anticipation and mischief.

"Maybe…"

Root returned Shaw's look, albeit with her own little flirtatious smirk.

"Alright then."

The two women squared off. They stood facing each other standing six feet apart. Bear, who had been with Root while she was hidden, watched the exchange with curiosity from where he sat in the shadows. Root and Shaw stood like that for several long moments just staring each other down. Their stare was the promise of a hot iron to the face; it was being woken with a tazer at 4 AM. It was a knockout punch to the face in an underground tunnel; ten hours to kill in a CIA safehouse with naught but a tazer, a hood, and zip ties. That stare was every bit of physical harm they'd ever done to each other…and they lived for those moments.

Root lunged at Shaw, throwing the first punch. Shaw deflected and grabbed Root's arm, taking her to the ground and pinning her in a full-nelson hold. They struggled on the ground like that for several moments. With her breathing labored as she continued to fight against the hold, Root asked:

"Is that better, sweetie?"

"You know it." Shaw grunted with a smirk.

"Good…"

With little warning, Root drove her elbow into the assassin's unguarded rib cage. She grunted as she struggled to keep her hold, but it loosened just enough to allow the taller woman to twist in her hold and nail her a second time. This time the blow was to Shaw's solar plexus. Shaw's hold loosened considerably after that hit, and Root wiggled out of it and attempted to place Shaw in a sleeper hold.

It was true, Root and Shaw enjoyed these games they played that ran in the vein of Spy vs. Spy, but there was another element to each of the physical aspects of their relationship. The communication. Both women were still at a place where there were some things they just couldn't speak of to the other after the whole ordeal with the stock exchange and the fall of Samaritan. The words left unspoken were conveyed in their actions during these moments of physical aggression...or physical intimacy. Every punch was a word, every kick and every caress was a sentence, and every kiss was another paragraph still.

The two women wrestled a bit more on the ground before the fight was taken back to the standing position, and punches and kicks were reintroduced into the fray.

"You've…improved." Shaw commented of Root's fighting technique in between punches. She was quick to block yet another aimed at her head after her comment.

"I had a good mentor." Root smirked.

The hacker went on the defensive as Shaw unleashed a combo of roundhouse kicks, snap jabs, and a single upper cut that Root narrowly blocked.

"Are you talking about me or John?" Shaw asked teasingly, faking a jab and then nailing Root in the face through her lowered guard.

"Well, no offence to Lurch, " Root spoke through slightly gritted teeth as the pair continued their sparring session, "but he's really not my type."

Shaw was just about to retort when the other woman continued speaking, looking at her with seductive grin. "In fact…"

Not a moment after she spoke, Root moved deftly, executing a perfect take down and coming to straddle the assassin's torso. Shaw could've stopped the move—Root wasn't that quick with some of the more complex techniques, yet—but she wanted to see where Root was going with this as she hovered above her with that smoldering, alluring, dangerous look in her gaze that _almost _made Shaw feel powerless to look away. This particular look always reminded her of the doomed bug flying toward the blue light only to be zapped.

Except Shaw enjoyed that part.

Root leaned in slowly, oh so agonizingly slowly. Shaw waited with anticipation; planning. When Root finally leaned her sweaty body down flush with Shaw's own, she leaned over next to Shaw's ear:

"I prefer sociopaths who can treat bullet wounds with Jack Daniels." Her voice was breathy in Shaw's ear and had that ever present quality to it that was akin to a siren attempting to lure her prey. It was a quality that Shaw had found herself falling victim to quite frequently of late, and the same was almost true of this occasion.

_Almost._

Shaw rolled them over so that she was on top with her arms braced on either side of Root's head and their faces inches apart. She took the briefest of moments to take in Roots dilated eyes, flushed face, and parted lips. She could feel Root's breath hitting her chin in short bursts. She smirked somewhat impishly.

"How flattering." She spoke, leaning down and making contact with Root's lips. The action was a stark contrast to the violence of the sparring session they had spent the last good while engaged in. It was soft, it was languid, and it was loving. It was also far too short for Root's liking. Just as she snaked her hands up the back of Shaw's head to pull her closer, the other woman pulled away.

With another smirk, Shaw finished her thought, "But we both need a shower." She stood and offered a hand to Root, who was still in a bit of an aroused fog on the floor.

Root was, however, aware enough to note the vague hint of suggestion in Shaw's voice at her mention of a shower.

"You're place or mine?"

Several hours later would find Shaw fast asleep as morning dawned on New York and the sun began to shine through the windows of her loft. She was laid on her side tangled up in the bed sheets and she snored as she continued to sleep through the sounds of New York's morning grind…and the smell of breakfast.

Root had been roused from her own sleep some time ago by the buzzing of The Machine in her ear. Unable to go back to sleep, she had settled for making food. She knew that Shaw would be hungry when she woke up and a hungry Shaw was not a pleasant Shaw. Especially not given the conversation that they would need to start the day with in light of The Machine's directions.

While Sameen slept on, the hacker busied herself with the last few strips of bacon as a couple of bagels were heating in the toaster. She grabbed two paper plates from Shaw's mostly barren cabinets just as the bagels popped up. Electing to allow Shaw just a few more minutes of sleep, Root collected some scrambled eggs and bacon onto a plate for herself and grabbed a plastic fork from the collection of cheap utensils that sat in a Solo cup on the counter.

Once she'd finished with her food and tossed the plate in the trash, Root went back over to the stove and plucked a strip of bacon from the plate next to the pan. It was wake up time for Sameen.

With a certain deviousness in her stride and on her face, Root slinked over to the bed. She found that Shaw had shifted to burrow further into the blanket, bringing it partially over her head. That wouldn't do. Carefully, Root pulled the blanket just far enough down Shaw's head to expose her features, docile with sleep. She held out the strip of bacon and dragged it slowly back and forth underneath Sameen's nose. After a moment, she began to stir and Root was only slightly surprised when her hand shot out to grab the bacon strip before her eyes had even opened.

"Where's the rest of it?" Shaw grunted in a voice that was heavy with sleep as she sat up against the headboard and popped the heavenly strip of meat into her mouth.

Root grinned openly at Shaw's appetite. "On the stove. I left you a plate."

Shaw grunted something that vaguely sounded like "Thanks."

She stood and made her way over to the table. So focused was she on filling her stomach that she remained oblivious to Root's sudden, yet subtle, shift in mood. Root knew Shaw wasn't going to like the order of business for the day.

About half an hour later, once Shaw had eaten and changed clothes, both women were collecting weapons and ammo for the day when Shaw finally started the conversation that Root had known was imminent.

"So, what's your machine got on the agenda today?" Root noted that her tone showed only the slightest measure of the disdain it had held where the machine was concerned. Maybe that was a good sign.

On her end, Shaw knew that Root had received instructions from the machine early that morning. Root only woke as she had when the machine spoke to her and Shaw had been roused just slightly by the shifting of weight in the bed.

Root silently thanked Harold for having texted her with a cryptic update only minutes ago.

"Well, _You _and John will be busy investigating a new lead on the Decima front." Good so far. Shaw's face remained neutral and she gave the faintest tilt of her head in concession. "As for me…Lionel got some new information out of your accountant last night. He thinks somebody inside Hotel Moscow framed him for embezzling mafia money. I'm going under cover." She had conveniently hedged over the bit where Harold was going with her. Still, as predicted, Shaw's reaction was decidedly less than happy.

"Like hell." She hissed. "It's my number, and you're not going undercover in the Russian mob alone."

There were so many things Root wanted to say. She wanted to argue, she wanted to fight, she wanted to tell Shaw that she wasn't going off alone either. But she settled for her usual flirty attitude that was the default when she felt too insecure to deal with certain feelings.

"I'm a big girl, Sameen." She smirked "I can handle myself against a few Russians. Besides, Harry insists that you and John are both needed to follow a new lead."

Shaw was having none of it though. Apparently, she wanted to fight about this. "So? You're just as capable as I am. Why can't you go with Reese?"

Root almost laughed at the question. The answer was so obvious. "Because you're Persian, Sam." For the tiniest second, the hacker thought she saw surprise flash across Shaw's features. "You're Persian and you look Persian. No one would ever buy you as a Serbian.

Shaw scoffed, "Right, and you don't look Italian."

"Well, I can at least speak passable Russian." Root shrugged in response.

For a moment, they stood in silence and it seemed as if that would be the end of the discussion. However, Shaw still hadn't had her last word.

"I still don't get it. The machine summons a whole bunch of agents none of us even knew existed just to help take down Samaritan, and now they're in the wind again. Why can't she give you a little back up?"

"She would if it were necessary." Root was speaking somewhat seriously now, the traces of her playful tone had begun to slip away as the conversation dragged on. "But you have to understand, Sam, those agents? They have their own responsibilities just as we have ours. The machine has a plan, I've come to understand that again."

"Right—" Shaw started to argue again, but Root cut her off. She spoke to her in a serious tone of voice that she'd only used a handful of times since they met. Notably, when Shaw had just had her cover blown and after the fall of Samaritan when the two spoke of their time apart for the first time. It was a tone devoid of Root's usual playfulness and flirtation.

"Listen, I know you have a lot of issues with the machine right now…Issues you need to keep working through, but when you're ready, I'll tell you why I trust the machine." Shaw stood with rooted to her spot in the floor just staring at Root out of the side of her eye with her lips pursed, probably to bite back further argument.

Root continued to speak, gazing at Shaw with understanding in her eyes. "In the meantime, though, you know that you can trust me even if you can't trust the machine yet."

Shaw nodded slightly in assent after mulling the words over. She did know. She could trust Root. She could trust John. She could trust Harold. That would have to be enough for right now.

"Good." Root smiled briefly, "Now let's go. We have to get to the subway."

Shaw led the way to the door and just as her hand made it to the knob, she felt Root's touch on her arm and turned to meet the serious gaze that had settled back into Root's eyes.

"One more thing you should know: the two months after the stock exchange incident are the only time I've ever considered removing the implant."

Satisfied that Shaw understood what she had meant to imply with that statement, Root ushered the assassin out the door.

* * *

Root and Shaw arrived at the subway to find that Reese was already present. Curiosly, Finch was nowhere to be seen. As she made her way over to Bear's bed to say good morning to the dog, Shaw wondered about his missing presence.

"He said he had a couple things to take care of." Reese answered by way of cryptic explanation from the subway car, pulling out cleaning solvent and field stripping his pistol. Shaw joined him momentarily to clean her own weapons.

"So, do you know anything about this new lead?" Shaw shot a quick look in Root's direction. She was slightly disappointed when John shook his head. "Not much about what we're doing. Just that Decima is dealing with government agents."

Shaw continued to wipe down the barrel of her field stripped firearm absentmindedly as she considered that. Decima/Samaritan operatives plus government agents couldn't possibly bode well for them…or for countless others. Her thoughts were interrupted by Harold's arrival to the subway and she momentarily paused her actions to come out of the train car as he greeted each of them. Down to business.

John was the first to address the issue at hand.

"So, what about Samaritan, Finch? I take it your worm found something."

Finch nodded, going over to his computer to pull up some files he'd collected. "It did indeed, Mr. Reese."

"Wait…worm?"

Harold turned to address the group. Each of them were looking intently at him with different measures of anticipation and confusion.

"As you know, Mr. Reese took it upon himself to survey Decima's new location. In doing so, he observed people he believed to be government agents. I used a worm to gather information from the cell phones of everyone near Mr. Reese and I believe I have found our next lead."

He turned around to his computer, pulled up a file, and expanded it so that the group could see it.

"I found multiple references to a group called the Anarchy Council. From what I can gather, they 're a group composed of ex federal agents whose objective is the dismantling of various government programs."

Shaw perked up, recognizing the name. She had dealt with some of its members before.

"I know them. I ran across a few members back in my ISA days."

"I thought that might be the case." Harold acknowledged, "They're activities do favor the realm of cyber terrorism. That being the case, do you have any guesses as to why Control would simply let them be."

Shaw simply shrugged, "We had a few brushes with these guys, but the ISA always seemed more interested in acting against extremist terrorism. I didn't ask many questions."

Still, they were going to need to ask questions now. Finch had a pretty strong feeling that Control would have some helpful intelligence on this group, even if she had chosen not to take action against them. The trick would be getting her to share that information. He gave a slight tilt of his head in acceptance of Shaw's answer.

"Still, we need that intelligence now; which is why you and Mr. Reese have a flight to Washington D.C. in your future. Now, Ms. Groves, " Harold turned to speak to Root, ignoring the twin expressions of distaste he was getting from John and Shaw. Neither one of them particularly cared for a sit-down with Control. And to top that off…

"…about this number." Shaw tensed even further at the mention of the number that Root would be working alone. "I've picked up everything you require." He handed her a bag that contained various different surveillance devices and a pair of gray contacts to help her look more her part.

Root noticed that Shaw had gone back to the armory to resume nervously cleaning her guns while Reese sat reading up on the Anarchy council.

"Now what's our plan?" Finch asked Root.

"Just like we talked about Harry: I'll sweet talk my way in, make them think I'm from another chapter of the faction—I made a phone call to the head of the family early this morning, so they're expecting us."

Their voices had travelled to the armory and Shaw stiffened at hearing the word "us". So Finch was going under cover too?

"And you'll just pretend to be the new accountant, try to get access to a computer, and see what you can find."

Shaw felt the snarl spread across her face as she continued to wipe furiously at her gun. Truthfully, it was probably clean a while ago, but Shaw's thoughts had distracted her from the monotonous task. Root had told her she could take care of herself, and Shaw knew it was true. But come on! Did Root really expect to be able to protect herself _and _Harold inside the belly of the beast if the shit hit the fan…and do so with no back up from herself or Reese?

Shaw took a deep breath, reminding herself that she really did trust Root and Root's judgment. Knowing what she knew now about her task for the day, going to DC by herself or sending John alone wouldn't be practical. Control was a formidable woman. And Root did still have Fusco at the very least. She also seemed confident that the machine would back her up if necessary.

For now, that confidence would have to be enough for both of them.

With a heavy sigh, Shaw snapped a clip into her gun and racked the slide before pocketing the weapon. On her way out of the armory, she grabbed several more clips and put them in various pockets. Root was still engrossed in discussion with Harold, but her gaze met Shaw's for a moment as she listened to Finch's words. Shaw's look thoroughly conveyed her displeasure at the situation, but it also said that she would not make an issue of it for the moment.

Root smirked, replying to something Finch had said before turning her gaze back to Sameen and mouthing two final words to her before the assassin followed John out of the subway to begin their mission.

"Trust me."

* * *

If you've made it this far, I thank you very much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the return of Shoot scenes in this chapter, and well, the chapter. Anyway, thanks again for reading; now I hope you'll be kind enough to review.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5:

Control's morning had been typical; albeit busy. She had dropped her daughter off to school, attended a morning briefing with white house staff in the room, and orchestrated bombings on three different terrorist cells in Syria and Pakistan all before finishing her first cup of coffee. It was shaping up to be just another ordinary day. So, when Control headed to her office for a break just before noon, she could not have anticipated what—or who—would be waiting for her.

Upon entering her office, Control did a double take, realizing that someone was sitting at her desk. A rather familiar someone. What the hell?

"Agent Shaw…" She drawled out in a deceptively welcoming tone as a sweet smile that was as fake as a porn star's cup size spread itself across her face. "What a pleasant surprise."

"Don't start lying to me yet." Shaw met Control's expression with her own challenging smirk, watching the older woman's expression falter until it fell into a more familiar one.

"Okay…" She spoke, challenging Shaw right back. "Let's start with 'why are you in my office?' _How _are you in my office?"

"You should know." Shaw held up a security clearance badge identical to Control's own that had previously been hidden under the desk. "I learned a lot from ISA."

Control's response was a predatory smirk that was somewhat like looking into the face of a blood-thirsty Cheshire cat. "Clearly you didn't learn not to go messing with powerful people after they try to have you killed."

Shaw chuckled slightly under her breath at the irony of that statement. Powerful people were the reason for her being in this office…however reluctantly. She looked back up at Control with a bored expression while fiddling with a pair of scissors from Control's desk.

"Look, I'm gonna level with you. I didn't come here to reminisce about our fucked up history." She noted Control's hand was very slowly inching its way behind her back. The place where Shaw knew she kept a gun. Underneath the desk, Shaw's own hand was creeping toward her firearm.

"Then leave." Her hand inched just a little bit closer. "This conversation has no interest to me, and I have nothing you want."

"Oh, but you do."

Just as Shaw thought the situation might turn ugly, Reese's gruff reply to that last statement was heard from the doorway. Control took her attention off of Shaw to see John standing behind her with his gun pulled out.

"We need to talk."

"Agent Reese." Control heaved a heavy sigh. This was not how she wanted to spend her break. "All right, we'll talk." She moved over to her desk, ushering Shaw out of the chair. "But first, I'm gonna need my chair back, Shaw."

Shaw moved from behind the desk and came to sit in one of the two seats in front of it. Once John was satisfied that Control would be cooperative, he put his gun away and sat down in the remaining seat to Shaw's right. With everyone situated, Control questioned them once more.

"So tell me; why are you here?"

"We've come across a group that calls itself the Anarchy Council: ex government agents intent on bringing down the government. Does that seem familiar to you?" Reese spoke.

Control pretended to think about it for a moment before responding negatively. "I'm afraid it doesn't. Even if it did, the fact that you're here on my doorstep means that you probably know about as much as I do.

They all knew that at least part of that statement was bullshit. Shaw remembered being ordered to kill no less than five members of the group during her stint working for the woman across the desk.

"That's not entirely true, is it?"

Shaw was once again challenging control, engaging in a brief, but intense, staring contest as she drove her point home. "I remember the AC members you had me kill. What happened? Why did that stop?"

Those were all good questions; questions Control had asked, herself. Still, she hadn't previously cared enough about the matter to dig into it and question a decision made by a superior government official. She was still getting to kill terrorists, after all. Still, she did have to admit that something about the situation had never sat quite right. That didn't mean that she was about to make anything easy for the pair in front of her, however.

"That's classified." She smirked at the pair, and then it was Reese's turn to respond.

"Classified or not, we need answers." Shaw glared at Control, who smiled smugly in return.

"And how exactly is that my problem?"

Reese was quick to offer an answer the question, "As we speak, there are members in New York working with what's left of Decima's operation in the city." John leaned forward as he spoke, coming to rest with his elbows on Control's desk and boring into her with his steely gaze. "That is a dangerous combination. One that puts not just the machine at risk, but your ISA, as well. I'd say _that _concerns you. Now, why don't we start over? Why did you stop pursuing the Anarchy Council?"

She sat back in her chair and met his gaze with her own, mulling the situation over. If what they said was true, then this was a problem she couldn't avoid whether that meant helping the people sitting across from her or getting personally involved. As much as it annoyed her to come to the decision, she decided that the best course of action for the time being would be to cooperate with the pair of assassins in front of her.

"Orders." Control answered simply after a few moments of thought. "I was ordered to stop pursuing relevant numbers related to the AC in favor of putting more heat on domestic extremists."

"By whom?"

Control sighed in frustration at Reese's prodding. This was not a good place for this conversation.

"Shut the door." She commanded, and Reese stood to do so.

With that out of the way, she continued her explanation, speaking in hushed tones. "Myself, and several other senior members of the ISA supervisory committee were brought into a meeting with the head of DHS. He told us that he wanted to push against violent domestic terrorism. He also told us not to concern ourselves with the Anarchy Council any further since they conduct activities without violence. We were all told never to speak of the meeting or the AC after that."

Reese and Shaw exchanged looks with each other as Control let slip the last bit of information. It seemed somebody in the government had a particularly interesting agenda.

"Can you tell us anything about the group?" Shaw questioned "Location? Faction strength?"

Control shook her head, "Nothing recent. There hasn't been any intelligence collected in over two years. But you mentioned they were active in New York City?" Reese nodded. "I do recall seeing something about an old warehouse used as a base of operations there in one of the old files."

Growing quite tired of the questioning and what she perceived as an intrusion, Control added somewhat harshly, "Now, will that be all?"

Shaw nodded then looked to John. "I think we're done here. Reese?"

Reese assented, and Control gave one last comment as the pair stood to leave.

"Good. Now get the hell out of my office."

"Gladly." Shaw muttered, making her way to the door, but Control wasn't finished quite yet.

"Oh, and one last thing."

Reese, who's hand had made it to the knob, turned to look at her along with Shaw.

"This conversation never happened."

Shaw and Reese spent the next several minutes in silence as they made their way out of the pentagon and away from the nerve center of the American government. They each pondered the possibilities of what Control had divulged to them. Each Idea was worse than the last; yet, while she knew a lot of people would die if the machine was compromised, a part of Shaw's mind thought it wouldn't be such a bad thing. Admittedly, she was coming around to accepting the machine's recent actions, but there was still progress to be made in that area.

Eventually, it was John who broke the silence as the pair walked on through downtown DC on their trek back toward the airport. They had plenty of time to kill before the flight back to New York, so a little walk through the city couldn't hurt.

"So, what do you make of that intel?"

Shaw simply shrugged beside him. "Doesn't seem like much of a mystery to me. Obviously, someone in the government is in bed with the Anarchy Council."

John nodded, sticking his hands into his coat pockets against the cold DC air. "Yes, but who? The head of the Department of Homeland Security would be the obvious choice, but it is possible that someone above him wanted things kept quiet."

"Or maybe someone's got dirt on him and he's on a leash?" Shaw suggested, "Anyway, this might not be so bad for us."

"Shaw." John chided her half-heartedly, knowing exactly the turn this conversation was taking.

Shaw smirked, "No, just hear me out for a minute. Say the machine somehow gets shutdown by the AC with Decima's help…assuming that's end goal of Decima's involvement with these guys. Then we're all out of a job, retired, and drinking rum on a beach in Mexico."

Reese couldn't resist the grin that crept across his face both at the thought of any of them vacationing in Mexico, and at Shaw's flawed logic. "We wouldn't answer to the machine in that case, but you're forgetting that a lot of the government is operated by it. If the machine ever did get shut down it would be crippling to the country."

At his response, she shrugged again with an assenting tilt of her head as they continued their walk down the street. "It was just a thought."

"By the way, Shaw; do you _really _see us as the types to sit around on a beach all day?" His tone was as teasing a tone as John Reese could manage and Shaw glanced over with a crooked smirk in response as he continued to speak. "You know as well as I do that if this gig working for the machine didn't pan out, we'd all be following the sounds of gunfire to the nearest action."

"Even Finch?"

"Somebody's gotta be tech support."

* * *

"Okay, so let's run through this one more time."

It was just after noon and Fusco was sat in the interrogation room for the second time in the last twenty-four hours with one Don Rezniczek. He had managed to get some useful information out of the man the night before, but he still felt like there was something the accountant was holding back. Whether that was out of fear for his life or any remaining loyalty to the Bratva that tried to have him killed, the detective couldn't say.

"I've already told you everything." Don protested

"No, Don. I don't think you have. Keep in mind, I'm questioning you 'cause I wanna find out why Hotel Moscow wants you dead." Fusco eyed him up and down, taking in his frazzled appearance, but honing in on the expensive suit he was still wearing. "Let's start with that suit."

Don looked down at himself in confusion, not quite understanding why his attire was important. "My suit?"

Fusco nodded, "Yeah. You're an accountant. I figure a guy like you makes what? Five figures a year tops? But that suit looks like it's at least a six figure suit. Meanwhile, you got two million sitting in your bank account from an account Hotel Moscow uses for its legitimate business. I gotta tell ya…that doesn't look good."

Don perked up at Fusco's point about his suit. He could account for that much, at least!

"I can explain the suit."

Fusco nodded, trying to keep the cynicism from his features. "Go on."

"It was a gift from a friend of mine."

"A gift." Fusco's voice dripped with disbelief and Don's face fell. "Must be a hell of a friend."

"I'm serious!" Don persisted, "Look, I took it to the dry cleaner in Chinatown about a month ago…before the money got into my account. You can check."

"Alright, alright…" Fusco conceded, satisfied with that answer. He jotted down the information on a note pad in front of him as he continued talking. "I'll do that. The bank verified that you weren't the one who put the money in your account, but they also couldn't say who did. Do you have any guesses?"

Don merely shook his head by way of answer to the question, folding his arms in front of him and staring into the wall over the detective's shoulder. Fusco decided to try a different approach to the question. "Okay, one more thing. I know we talked about this last night, but I need you to walk me through exactly what happened before you realized that money was in your account."

The accountant's eyes flitted to Lionel, and then back to the corner of the interrogation room and his jaw clenched and relaxed several times in response to the grinding of his teeth. He looked to Fusco as he was debating with himself whether or not to answer the question. Unfortunately, it was after the lunch hour and Lionel's empty stomach was diminishing his worn down patience even further.

Don was startled from his internal debate when the detective abruptly stood and the harsh sound of the metal chair scraping across the floor grated on his ears. "Alright, you don't wanna answer, that's fine with me. It's your life." Fusco stifled a smug expression as he watched Don's eyes widen with fear. "I'm just gonna step out and go grab some food; maybe you'll still be alive when I get back." He shrugged casually, watching the accountant's reaction closely. He could see the cracks starting to form and spread. That's it…

The smug expression finally made it onto Fusco's face when Don caved in after a few seconds, putting a hand up as if that would stop the detective. "No…please don't go. I'll tell you."

Lionel pulled the chair out and sat back down at the table while Don explained his predicament.

"I don't just do the illegal book keeping. I'm also employed as the accountant for the mob's legitimate business practices."

Of course, Fusco had already gleaned this much but he still nodded politely, willing Don to continue. He sensed that that fact was an important factor in the direction this little story was going.

"Usually, they're careful to keep all the records for the business in perfect order. You know, to avoid any unnecessary trouble with the law. But, I noticed recently when I was running numbers that there was at least $80K I couldn't account for. A few days later, I found two million sitting in my account."

Fusco sat across the table, looking at Don with his eyes narrowed in thought. There could be any number of reasons for that missing money.

"So, what? You think someone's embezzling from the Russian mob?"

"It's possible." Don nodded in concession, "but there are only a handful of people who have that account information. And I can't imagine that the ones who would be smart enough to steal from the mob would also be stupid enough to do it."

Fusco had to agree with that. Of all of the Russian Bratva presence in New York City, Hotel Moscow in particular had a frightening reputation. Thanks in no small part to the boss' much renowned charismatic, yet iron-fisted and brutal approach to crime and discipline.

"There's also the issue of the two mil in your account transferred from the mob's own account. Do you know of anyone who would have legal authorization to handle transfers from the business account _and _the offshore account?"

At this, Don shook his head, "I have my suspicions, but I can't say for a fact. Sorry."

Fusco did too. The most logical people would be the boss himself and his lieutenants. Following that assumption, it seemed likely that Don got too close to something the mob didn't want him to find. Some secret dealings, perhaps. Given all of this, the detective now felt comfortable enough to say one thing. He now believed that Don had been framed, just as the man had insisted in his hysteric ramblings the previous night.

Lionel stood, satisfied that he knew enough of the situation for the moment. "Thanks Don, we're done for now."

He turned on his heel and pulled his phone out, pressing 3 on the speed dial once he was out of the room. He'd already called Finch about Don's theory that he was framed, he needed to inform him of the possibility that what they were dealing with went all the way to the top of the food chain.

"Yeah, Glasses?" Lionel greeted when Finch answered after the second ring. "I got something for ya."

* * *

The Machine continued to buzz into Root's ear as she and Harold made their way toward Brighton Beach. Just after Reese and Shaw had departed for their own mission, She had begun feeding statistical probabilities into Root's ear. This wasn't an uncommon occurrence, however, the probabilities weren't exactly optimistic this time, and The Machine insisted on reminding her of that periodically. Root's main concern was Harold. The low probabilities seemed to be centered on him anyway.

_Probability of Administrator escape following current operation protocols- 8%_

What? How could it have lowered?

"What can I do?" Root quietly asked of The Machine, but mostly talking to herself as she thought over different options. She knew that she could not allow Harold to be killed or captured…She wouldn't forgive Root if something happened to Her creator. It was also in the back of Root's mind that Shaw would forgive neither her nor The Machine easily if she failed to save Harold or got in trouble herself.

It wasn't until shortly before they reached their destination that The Machine gave Root an option and she stopped in her tracks, surprising Finch. He had little time to question her before she dragged both of them into a nearby alley.

"Change of plans, Harry." She quickly took some of the hardware she'd been carrying that they planned to use for hacking and gave it to Finch to put into his briefcase.

"What's going on, Root?" There was concern in Harold's voice as he packed the items into his case. He was able to guess that the machine had contacted her, but he found her uncharacteristically nervous demeanor quite disconcerting. Regardless, the hacker was quick to brush off his concern with a smile.

"You're not coming with me. She wants you somewhere else." Somewhere safer, Root thought to herself.

"And, where might somewhere else be?"

Root explained as she inserted the contact lenses that Harold had retrieved earlier, "The computers used by Hotel Moscow for their illegal business and legitimate business are all on the same server. I'm going to infiltrate the mob as planned and see what I can find. You're going to their business office."

Harold followed Root out of the alley and looked in the general direction of where she pointed. Ah, yes. Those offices. From where they stood right now, they were about midway between the Bratva headquarters to the south. Before either of them could say anything more, Finch's phone rang. He pulled it out to see that it was Detective Fusco.

"Detective Fusco." Finch greeted after the second ring, listening intently to the man's account of his recent findings. After thanking the detective and hanging up, he turned to see Root's interested look.

"Ms. Groves…before you go, one last piece of information. You may want to focus your efforts on Mr. Denisov and his immediate subordinates."

Root smiled, grateful for that bit of information from the detective. "Will do, Harold." She spoke as she turned on her heel to start her part of the mission. Harold lingered for only a moment watching her walk away, concerned for her well-being. He turned to head in the opposite direction but spoke a final warning under his breath as he went, aware that she probably still heard it through her comm.

"Please be careful, Miss Groves."

A short time later, Root arrived at Hotel Moscow headquarters. It was, in fact, an actual hotel owned and operated by the Russian mafia for generations. It was also far nicer than many of the surrounding buildings of Brighton Beach. It's elaborate décor and generally well kept appearance provided a stark contrast to the slum-like appearance of the rest of the block.

Upon her arrival to the building, Root was quick to notice that she had a welcoming party. A group of four men. Three of them wore black leather jackets of various styles, while the one in the middle—who she assumed was the highest ranking—wore a long tan trench coat and bore noticeable scars on his knuckles and a burn scar on his left forehead and cheek. Root noticed the pupil of that eye was discolored, implying blindness.

The Russian wearing the trench coat was the first to speak when Root finally reached the group. He smiled a welcoming smile that didn't quite reach his eyes as he addressed her in his deep voice, thick with his Russian accent.

"Welcome. You must be Natasha, no?"

"I am." She smiled right back, taking the time to subtly survey what she could see as the man looked around confused.

"Good. I am the boss; Vladimir Denisov. It's always good to have new muscle. You come highly recommended from Providence."

Of course she did, Root thought as she continued to smirk at this sap. She recommended herself.

"I'm glad to know my work is appreciated."

Denisov nodded. "Yes. Yes, of course. But…" He continued to look around, as if someone else might pop up behind her at any moment. "Where is the other one? The one who was supposed to come with you?"

Root shrugged, waving his question off in a flippant manner. "Oh, him. You know how that is." She looked into his gray eyes with a dangerous look of her own. A look that implied all of the things she was capable of, while intentionally misleading him to think she was actually speaking of another person and not him.

"Some people just don't know their place."

The boss appeared to accept that answer and ushered her and the rest of his detail inside. With the conversation finished for the moment, Root allowed a slightly triumphant smile to cover her face as The Machine spoke in her ear once more.

_Probability of Administrator escape following current operation protocols- 82%_

* * *

Thank you all so much for reading! Those of you who have reviewed; your feedback has been helpful. I hope y'all continue to enjoy this story. Please R &amp; R!


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six:

Once the initial introduction was over with, Root had been led inside the hotel where she thought that the Russian boss would leave her alone. She was disappointed to find herself the subject of further questioning. It seemed that the man's reputation as a personable leader was well earned…and most likely so was his reputation as a ruthless boss. He spoke to her kindly and with an interest that seemed genuine enough, yet there was an edge behind that charming smile that hinted at a more brutal nature. It was in his eyes, as well; the way he smiled at her yet bore into her with a cold, calculating gaze. Luckily, Root always played her part to perfection, blending into any environment with a seamless ease. She took much, but gave nothing away in return.

Not soon enough for the hacker's liking, the interrogation and the brief guided tour of all things inconsequential to her purpose in the building came to an end. Root slipped a hand into her pocket and softly traced the listening device that rested there; it was time to put the plan in motion. First, she had to find a suitable place for the bug.

"You all settled, Harry?" Root asked discreetly as she slowly meandered back into the main lobby.

"Yes. I'm here, Ms. Groves."

Given the last minute change of plans, Harold had been required to do some quick thinking on the spot. He had talked his way into the hotel business offices by causing a minor issue with the office computers and then presenting himself as an IT technician. Luckily, the other workers in the office had been just enough crayons short of a box to buy the half-baked ruse. That left him with plenty of access to the computers. Before he could get any work done, however, he had to fix his own little mess.

With confirmation from Finch, Root slowly meandered into the main lobby as she conducted her own little self-guided tour.

The lobby was a large, open area with a ceiling that reached all the way to the tenth of twenty eight floors. Parts of these ten floors were open to the lobby with hallways that lined the walls. Root noticed that there were actually three different exits in the lobby; there was the main door at the front and an additional two on either side. She noticed that there were two door men stationed at each door wearing hotel uniforms. While the guests may have been fooled, Root's trained eye detected that these were not ordinary door men. They had the hardened edge of criminality about them.

For business purposes, these men and any other members of Vlad's gang could not overtly carry weapons. Still, she had no doubt that each member of the Russian mob that she laid eyes on was packing some carefully concealed heat. There was at least that advantage if her cover should be blown during this operation. The mob would want to avoid a direct confrontation. A gunfight in their hotel would be bad for business.

Root casually sauntered out of the lobby and continued down a hallway that she knew would lead her back toward the rooms that served as a nerve center for Hotel Moscow's criminal enterprises. There were meeting rooms and semi-unoccupied offices with a couple of stray computers and some boxes. There wouldn't be any drugs to be found; this Bratva dealt in human trafficking and illegal firearms dealing, conducting those transactions in a seedy back alley of Brighton Beach.

She continued until she came to the office used by Denisov himself. Root silently cursed her luck when she noticed that he was seated inside and she tried to duck out of the door frame, but came back when she noticed his head whip up in her direction.

There was that pirate smile again.

"Ah, Natasha…finding everything okay?" As with every previous interaction with the man thus far, his manner was casual and open, but danger was just beneath the surface. Root noted that despite his pleasant attitude he seemed vaguely irritated at having been interrupted from the work in front of him.

The hacker smiled her most charming smile at the man almost as if she were trying to put him under her spell. She spoke sweetly in a voice that also was not without an element of danger. Two could play his game.

"Oh, yes. I just realized something. I didn't properly thank you for giving me a tour."

All the while, she was covertly surveying his office for a place to plant the bug that still sat burning a hole in her pocket.

The fichus in the corner? No, too obvious. How about the book case behind the desk? She didn't think she could manage that either. As talented at undercover work as she was, even she would have a problem faking an interest in A Beginner's Guide To Golf with any measure of authenticity. That left her with one real option: the desk.

But how would she accomplish that?

Denisov had responded to her earlier explanation with a statement she hadn't quite processed in the midst of pondering the desk. He spoke a bit louder and snapped Root from her thoughts.

"Are you alright?"

The question of how she would plant the bug only lingered briefly in her mind, and inspiration struck at the sound of his question. He'd given her a window.

She nodded slightly, showing him another smile, "Sorry, I was just admiring your desk." Root casually removed the hand that held the small listening device from her pocket as she ran her other hand over the smooth surface of the varnished wood. "Mahogany, isn't it?"

The boss nodded, taking his eyes off of Root for only a moment, but it was a crucial moment. He remained oblivious of her next action as he boasted. "Yes, it is. Only the finest."

As smoothly and with as much finesse as she did just about everything, the hacker casually moved her right hand along the bottom of an edge that jutted out at the top of the desk and left the bug sitting perfectly in place. The bug was well below eye level, so it was discreet enough that no one would notice it unless they bothered to kneel down to the floor and take a close look under that edge.

Root smirked at a task well done as she spoke to the boss again, "Well, as much as I'd like to stay and talk about your fine taste in furniture, I believe I have some work to get to."

With a few last parting words exchanged between them, Root exited the office and slinked back down the hall. If there was anything pertinent to their number going on, that bug would tell her.

Root missed the curious narrowed gaze that was aimed at her retreating back as the wheels turned in Denisov's head. His watchful eye lingered on her for a moment before he dismissed the encounter and went back to his paperwork.

On Harold's end of things the operation had gone reasonably less smoothly. In addition to the mild glitches he'd had to cause in order to cement his cover story, Finch had also logged onto a computer to discover a complex web of encryptions and other security measures that took him some two hours to work through. Luckily, the office staff seemed to have little interest in what he was doing. It was something that Harold found rather curious; none of the Russian mafia factions they'd dealt with in the past were known for being especially technology saavy. He filed that suspicion away in his mind to be addressed later.

Eventually, Finch was able to hack his way past the security and the server and into the mafia's email accounts. This led him to information pertaining to finances and recent business transactions, both illicit and legitimate. He would have no time to read through any of it, however, and so he pulled out a USB drive and set to work downloading the pertinent e-mails to be read later.

Since planting the bug in Boss Denisov's office, Root had set about getting to know various members of Hotel Moscow. As it turned out quite a few of them were gossips. In the two hours since entering the hotel, Root had learned who was sleeping with who, who was feuding with who, and who had shot who before. Unfortunately, there was nothing to be said about the ill-starred accountant; try as she did to very carefully broach the subject.

There was one thing of note…

If the whispers at the assassin's table were to be believed, apparently the boss wasn't too popular these days. There were rumors of a potential coupe. Given how long it had taken her to hear that information coupled with the loose lips in general, Root had no doubt that Denisov was completely aware of the potential danger to his throne. It seemed plausible to her that he might be planning something in a bid to assert his power; something involving the mafia finances. It was also possible that Don had discovered part of what that something was.

In the middle of her thought process The Machine began to speak, but it was different. It was distant…fading. Root could understand just enough as She continued to attempt Her message, and she felt her eyes widen into a horrified expression as the meaning of The Machine's words was processed in her mind.

There were a few more messages; each one a little harder to understand than the last. It sounded almost like The Machine was desperate and fighting against whatever force had taken hold of her; like the last flickers of a dying lightbulb.

Root hurried as quickly as she could to a secluded enough spot. "Harold…"

As he sat waiting for the final pieces of data to download, Harold startled slightly at the sound of Root's voice in his ear. He noted just from that single utterance of his name that her voice was devoid of all traces of its usual light, playful quality. It was deadly serious and tinged with a vague fear. Something was very wrong, and that made Finch fearful in return.

"Yes, Root. What's the matter?"

"I've lost communication with The Machine. I think She's been hacked."

As the data finished downloading in front of him, Harold's jaw fell open in shock and horror. The thoughts began to run a mile a second through his head. This was not good. This was bad; very bad. He could think of only one person besides Root and himself who had knowledge of the machine and would be smart enough to hack it. Never had he even remotely considered the possibility that Decima would use him for that purpose and he felt foolish for overlooking that now. It was so obvious. And, he knew that this would not stop at loss of communication. Hundreds of systems globally would be affected: surveillance systems, public transit schedules, government databases.

Harold quickly pulled the drive from the computer and pocketed it, taking the time to quickly plant a virus that would cover his tracks.

"I've got what I need. I'm going to have to go back to the subway to see if I can get the machine running properly."

He limped his way to the front desk of the office and bid the ladies farewell before taking to the street again. Underneath the obvious worry for his machine and the repercussions of the hacking, he was also deeply worried for Root now even more than he had been that morning.

"Please be careful, Ms. Groves."

Root's face contorted into something that was somewhere between a smile at his concern, and a snarl in response to her anger. It was an intense anger that hadn't been stirred up in her since watching Martine put bullets in Sameen while she watched helplessly. She was equally helpless in this situation, but, like Shaw, The Machine was not.

She had been programmed by Harold to fight back in case of just such an occasion.

"Just get Her back, Harold."

* * *

While Finch and Root had separated back in New York to divide and conquer the latest problem, Reese and Shaw had just arrived at the airport due to Reese's insistence that they be early. They still had an hour to kill before take-off. With a little help from false government credentials, the move through the security line was easy.

With some slight coaxing from Shaw, John had agreed to spend a little time having a quick drink before their flight. The pair made a beeline toward the bar and sat down in a secluded corner where their conversation wasn't likely to be overheard. With beers in hand for each of them, they bounced theories about their discovery off of each other, occasionally playing the part of bickering siblings to any wandering eyes.

They both found the meeting with Control to be troubling at best. A government cover-up of a distinctly anti-government group could not bode well for them if that group was working with Decima. Sure, they had allies out there, but it was also likely that this group had resources all over the globe. It was also well known that Decima had bases and agents all over the world. They had to be very careful about how they handled this situation.

After finishing and paying for their beers, Shaw and Reese stood to leave. It was when they left the bar that John noticed something wasn't quite right as he looked up at one of the monitors. He tugged Shaw's sleeve to pull her back to him as his eyes stayed glued to the screen. Shaw looked back at him with a question in her eyes and neutral expression on her face and Reese simply pointed up at the monitor.

Every single flight was either delayed or canceled; and it was a perfectly clear day across the eastern half of the United States.

"What the…?" Shaw muttered, taking a good look at the screen. They both turned to look toward the gate area in response to a few shouts amid the growing rumble of unrest. There was a disturbance brewing at the gates and the poor TSA agents and other airport employees were becoming helpless to stop it.

Shaw walked over to another monitor that displayed a slightly different set of flights and found again that they were all delayed or cancelled. Just what the hell was happening?

She didn't have to wait very long for an answer, turning around to see John putting his phone back in his pocket. His eyes had a grim look in them. With narrowed eyes, she gave a quick jerk of her head at Reese, silently asking for an answer.

"That was Finch. It sounds like things have gone Charlie foxtrot. Machine's been hacked."

"What the hell?" Shaw's eyes betrayed surprise and concern for just a brief moment before her usual composure slipped back into place. She knew that if the machine had been hacked, that left Harold vulnerable…It left _Root_ vulnerable. And worse, she and John were powerless to do anything about that from their current location.

Reese was quick to note the concern on Shaw's face and added, "Root's fine. She's lost contact with the machine, but Finch still has contact with her."

Shaw nodded, her worries placated for the moment. This was good. Now, they needed to focus on getting back to New York as quickly as possible. She took a look around at the chaos that was rapidly spreading around them.

Clearly the 747 back to JFK was out of the question.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"We're gonna need a car." John nodded.

The pair walked right past the desk for car rentals; they both knew that was a bad option right now. They walked outside to the front of the terminal where Shaw hailed a taxi. The taxi driver was a kindly middle aged Caucasian man who seemed eager to converse with the pair much to their shared irritation. John directed him to a small, private airfield in Maryland that he knew was mostly used for charter flights and personal aircraft.

Once they reached the airfield, the cabbie dropped them off at the front of the small terminal and they made their way around to the fence line. Shaw spied a man tending to his small Cessna aircraft reasonably close by and the two jumped the fence.

The man looked up in surprise when he saw them approaching and looked as if he was about to call out to someone when John silenced him, pulling a U.S. Marshal star from his coat pocket.

"I'm Marshal Jennings," He spoke in his best authoritative tone as he nodded his head toward Shaw, "and this is my associate, Samantha Gray."

"We need a lift to New York. Now."

* * *

It had been an hour and a half since The Machine had been hacked and Root had since been assigned the task of taking out someone she had been told was a former member of Hotel Moscow turned informant for the police. So, she sat, doing research at a computer…or at least she pretended to. She found her mind drifting to Harold and The Machine and wondered if he could get Her up and running again soon. If he failed, then they stood to lose so much more than The Machine. Her mind drifted back to the stock exchange; back to the bullets tearing through Shaw's body as she watched.

Root had developed something of a habit over the past few months of raining extra attention upon those freshly healed scars. Each time she saw Sameen's exposed body they served as a reminder of what she had almost lost. She didn't think she had it in her to bear witness to a sight like what she'd seen from the elevator of the stock exchange ever again. And she wouldn't. If she had to set the world on fire, Root would make sure that Shaw survived whatever was thrown at them; that Harold and Reese and Fusco and Bear survived. Her only family would _not _die.

She hadn't realized that she was chewing on the end of her pen until she managed to chew right through the ink well and the feeling of the ink saturating her mouth and clothing brought her from her thoughts.

"Shit." The only thing that seemed to be available to wipe herself with was the notepad in front of her, so she stood and headed for the private bathroom across the hall.

She had been working at her shirt for a good five minutes when there was a sudden, sharp sting in her neck. The realization was instant as the memory of a time when she was on the other end of the syringe flashed before her mind. This guy was good; she hadn't even noticed his presence until it was too late! She looked into the mirror, hoping to recognize the face, but all she saw was a man in a ski mask. Clearly he didn't want to be identified

As the tranquilizing agent ran its course through her veins, Root was overcome with heaviness. She breathed a few deep, heavy breaths as her eyes struggled to stay open and her neck fought to support the weight of her head against the effects of the sedative. It was all for naught, however.

The last thing Root's conscious mind registered as she slid into the floor guided by a pair of strong arms was a familiar voice speaking to her in a British accent.

"Sorry, Miss Groves."

* * *

There's Six. As always, thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoy and continue to read. Please R &amp; R!


	7. Chapter 7

Anger. Rage. Contempt. Fury. Ire.

There were so many words to describe this range of emotions, and yet, none of them seemed appropriate enough to accurately label what Shaw was feeling as she bore down on Finch with a steely glare. The part of her brain that was still capable of rational thought knew that he did nothing to deserve her wrath. Still, she desperately needed a target for the white hot anger threatening to burn every inch of her body.

"What the fuck, Finch?"

Her tone was only slightly accusatory; more venomous than anything as she spat out the question. Her posture was composed though she loomed over the crippled man with a gaze that promised fury in the form of slow, painful death to anyone and everyone responsible that she could get her hands on.

Shaw launched into a verbal assault on Finch that was only calm on its surface. She crossed her arms over her chest in a manner reminiscent of someone trying to hide their vulnerability even as they exposed it. "She's been missing for over _an hour _and your just now telling us?"

Reese and Finch followed Shaw into the armory where, somewhat predictably, she began wildly hurling ammo and weapons into a duffle bag.

For his part, Reese had reacted to Finch's information with a more subdued anger; an anger which was directed at their situation rather than a single person. He had come to care about Root in his own way with time; the final differences left between them were laid to rest during those desperate days when Shaw was away and Root was unable to find her. Even so, he had presence enough to know that they could not make a move quite yet. Normally preferring to watch quietly as these moments played out within their group, he interjected himself into Harold and Shaw's debate.

"There's nothing we could've done, Shaw." She looked at him as if he'd sucker punched her and she was preparing to kill him, then with a quick shake of her head she turned back to her task of emptying the contents of the armory.

"That doesn't change the fact that one of our own is out there. Alone. Against the mafia, Decima, and those Anarchy Council pricks. Even Root isn't that crafty." On the surface Shaw was still somewhat composed, though that composure was slipping a little more with each moment. In her voice there was clear anger and a slight hint of desperation. Finch recalled one other time he had seen this from her. The time when Root had gone to negotiate with Samaritan and Shaw was left powerless on the sidelines. There was a difference between the two occasions, Harold mentally noted with a grim expression.

Root truly is alone this time. No Reese and no machine to back her up.

As she tossed a couple more items into the duffel bag, Shaw thought briefly on her feelings. The part of her brain still capable of rational thought knew that Harold had done nothing to deserve her ire. She knew the machine was not to blame in this situation either, but she desperately needed a target for this white hot anger threatening to consume every inch of her. For a brief moment Shaw imagined that this must've been what Root felt like after she'd been gunned down in that basement.

Once again, Finch attempted to reason with the assassin.

"I wonder...what is it you hope to accomplish in going out and waging war against the mafia?" He knew precisely which of the three factions would be the immediate target of Shaw's wrath, and she wouldn't stop with them. Harold and Reese both knew that look in her eyes; the look that said she would turn the city upside down to find Root. Passive as he was at the moment, John was inclined to agree with that sentiment.

At that question, Shaw looked up from what she was doing and locked eyes with Harold. The gesture told him that he had her attention and he didn't intend to waste that lapse in her stubborn attitude so he continued to speak to her as if trying to calm a wild horse.

"All that will do is ensure that you and Mr. Reese have targets on your back." Finch had feared that the world would be thrown into chaos if the machine were ever to be compromised. He was also wise to the fact that if the world ever did go up in flames around them, there was a strong likelihood that Ms. Shaw would pour the gasoline, Ms. Groves would light the match, and Mr. Reese would fan the flames of such a fire until it burned itself out and there were no threats to the machine to be found. "We need to go about this with intelligence. We need to use what we know."

This was not the moment to be playing with fuel and matches, and thankfully, Mr. Reese agreed.

"Alright then, let's talk about what we know."

By this point Shaw had abandoned her attempts to pack up the entire arsenal of weaponry and her attention was fixed on Reese and Shaw, though her eyes were still blazing with fury.

"I think it's safe to assume that Ms. Grove's disappearance happening in such close proximity to the machine being hacked is no coincidence. "

Shaw sighed deeply, taking just a moment to allow rational thought to prevail over her anger before contributing her two cents, "That's true. Means whoever took her followed you this morning or Hotel Moscow has dealings with Decima that we missed."

Harold shook his head, "The only operative I found embedded in the Russian mob was on the Drugonov payroll. It wouldn't make sense for him to be associating with Hotel Moscow."

"Either way," John cut in, "I think we can all agree that this has Decima written all over it. Control did confirm that the warehouse I found yesterday is an AC safehouse and we know those two factions are working together. Maybe Shaw and I should take a look and see if we find any sign of Root." John shot Shaw a look that said they would be taking a _covert_ look and he did not expect to have to run into the warehouse after her with guns blazing. She just rolled her eyes in response.

"Yes, that does seem like the best place to start. In the meantime, I'll get to work on these e-mails and see if we can get a lead." Finch agreed.

With that decided the trio made their way out of the subway car and went their separate ways once again. Reese and Shaw wasted no time leaving the subway to start their reconnaissance while Harold went to his computer to set to work sifting through the data he'd collected.

Bear trotted up to Finch's side after a moment and whined as if he were questioning Harold; asking what's going on. Why is everyone upset? Where's the smiley woman? Where's Root?

Harold simply turned and exchanged a knowing gaze with the dog and gave him a pat on his head before returning to his work.

_She'll be back, boy._

* * *

Her head swam. It was heavy on her shoulders and she couldn't yet feel her limbs, though there was the slightest tingling sensation there. Root steeled herself against the groggy haze of the fading sedative and slowly opened her eyes, only to have them snap shut against the force of a sharp slap to the side of her face. She didn't feel much of the blow, but it her head lolled to the left side under the force of it as her brows knitted together in confusion and stifled anger.

"It's time to wake up, lovely."

There it was. There was that familiar voice again. The hacker slowly straightened her head back up and cracked her eyes open. Her vision was somewhat blurry and all she could make out was the shape of a man standing before her. Meanwhile, sensation had slowly begun to return to her arms and legs and she could feel enough now to notice that her arms were bound snugly behind the back of the chair she was seated in.

So, they wanted to play games with her.

A detached smile crept slowly across her features as her bleary eyes stared forward. They could torture her all they wanted.

After a few moments, her vision cleared and Root was able to make out the identity of her mystery assailant. Lambert! How? She hadn't been around for much of Reese's fight with him. He had made his appearance when the gang had been separated and Root and Shaw had ended up tangling briefly with Martine. But, Root had witnessed enough of the tail end of Reese's battle with Lambert. John and Fusco had gunned him down. How was he here now?

She smirked as she stifled her surprise. He wouldn't get the satisfaction of getting under her skin. "You're looking well. Better than I expected, agent Lambert."

He flashed his usual confident smile at her; the kind of pretend smile that only thinly veiled a hidden agenda. Root took note of that and filed it away for later use as he addressed her, "You're looking quite well, yourself. Although…that may be a temporary arrangement."

Root scoffed, "You know, it's cute that you think you can scare me."

"I'm not trying to scare you, Miss Groves." He answered smugly, coming to squat in front of her as their conversation continued.

"_Root." _She spoke defiantly, fixing him with a cold gaze as she covertly felt the bindings at her wrists to see if escape would be possible. "My name is Root."

"My apologies." He still looked smug as he watched her trying to hide the fact that she was fiddling with her bonds behind the back of the chair. Amusement settled onto his features even while the tiniest bits of frustration began to show through the hacker's veneer. "And…you're wasting your time with that, by the way. You won't be getting out of that chair unless you can get hold of something sharp."

Root was loathe to admit it, but the man was right. She wouldn't be leaving her confines any time soon. That left her no option but to sit and wait on the cavalry that she knew would be coming. Her cheek began to twinge a bit from Lambert's little love tap as the last remnants of the tranquilizer faded from her system and the feeling made her a bit irritable.

"That's fine with me." She shrugged flippantly as the psycho buried beneath her normally flirty and confident exterior began to rear its head. She looked down at Lambert with a twisted grin and a dark look in her eyes. "I'll have a front row seat when my friends come to burn this place to the ground."

Lambert was unmoved by the change in demeanor and he continued to speak to her as casually as if she were an old friend. "And how do you know that that isn't precisely the plan?" Back again was that cocky smirk with the thinly veiled hidden secrets.

For just a moment there was a crack in Root's psychopathic armor and just a trace of worry danced across her features before that crazy smile slipped back into place. Truthfully, she had no idea what they had planned, but whatever it was clearly revolved around her. There was also something in Lambert's smile that made her think he was just trying to plant the thought of a trap in her head. She grew angry again thinking about what they'd done to The Machine, and to Sameen before that. Her fists clenched behind her back and the manic expression gave way to one that was more dangerous.

"Even as we speak they are looking for you. You know that, don't you? You'll pay for what you did to Her." Root spoke ominously, boring into Lambert with a look that was all at once hollow, furious, and strangely gleeful. "They _will _find you." _She will find you._

Lambert stood up from his squatting position and backed away a couple steps. He'd done his job, had a little fun with the hacker before him, and now it was time to draw the conversation to a close.

"What is it you want from me, anyway?" Root questioned.

"It's not about what I want. It's about what he wants." Lambert stated, only causing Root more confusion and taking pleasure in the fact that he had irritated her further. "Speaking of," He continued, making his way to the doorway of the empty room they were in, "he'll want to have a word with you, _Ms. Groves._"

That last part was clearly tacked on just to piss her off and she resisted the urge to call out a retort to his retreating back. She had always had a special dislike for that man among Samaritan's operatives…rivaled only by her utter hatred for Martine. She didn't have much time to dwell on the subject as the door was opening in front of her.

If seeing Lambert came as a surprise, then coming face to face with this next familiar face was a shock. Lambert had talked about him as if he was calling the shots. Root found it improbable, though, that anyone very high up in Decima's chain of command would bow to a boy no matter how intelligent. The ex-government agents within the Anarchy Council's ranks certainly wouldn't tolerate it either.

Whether he knew it or not, this boy was a pawn.

* * *

Reese and Shaw wasted no time in rushing to the warehouse in SoHo. Much to Shaw's irritation, Reese had chosen to remind her during their ride in the taxi that this was strictly a recon mission. They were going to look for signs of Root; nothing else.

"What are we supposed to do if we find her, then?" Shaw knew the answer. At least, she knew what she'd do in that situation: sneak in, grab Root, sneak back out, then pick off as many of their enemies as possible once she was close enough to safety. She just felt like testing John's patience. More than that, she felt like turning this in to a full on guns blazing kind of battle; though she knew that probably wouldn't end well for her, John, or Root if they found her.

John's answer to that question was not what she'd expected. She expected some sort of tactical response, an affirmation of the course of action they would take if Root was in this warehouse. He hadn't been nearly as ambivalent about potential conflict as Finch, but she had sensed some reluctance on his part. So, his simple response surprised her.

"We get Root back."

She was also struck by the protective tone in his voice. It was the first time since Root joined them that he'd shown any indication that the psychopathic hacker was important to him. Shaw could only surmise that they'd laid a lot of issues to rest while she'd been away. She knew he still hurt over the loss of Carter so it seemed natural that her taking some lead and then disappearing for a couple months would be a bonding point between the two.

Strangely, she found that the thought was touching to her.

A moment later, the pair exited the cab about a block from the address Reese had given for the warehouse. They made their way on foot for the final stretch so they could better avoid detection. Upon arrival, they found the building to be just as still as Decima's abandoned warehouse was when John had went back to it.

"Strange…"

"They pack up quick." Shaw commented, shoving her hands into the pockets of her coat and caressing the steel inside her left pocket.

"Yeah," Reese nodded, "A little too quick. Almost like they didn't want us to find something." He pulled his pistol from his coat and Shaw glanced at him for a moment before following suit. "I think we should go have a look."

The pair entered the warehouse with guns drawn, Shaw went right and Reese veered toward the left and they searched until they met back up in the middle and only a tiny space had been left unchecked. Upon entry, both of them had been assaulted by an unnatural sweet smell that was only recognizable to people who knew what it was.

"Reese, do you smell what I smell?"

"Truth serum." He nodded.

Together they followed the scent to the remaining room of the building. There were a few empty syringes littering the floor and the back wall was lined with small cardboard boxes. A few of the boxes were open to reveal vials of unused Sodium Pentathol.

"Someone didn't have time to clean up." John quipped, walking over to pick up one of the vials.

Shaw stooped to examine the syringes on the floor more closely. Her suppressed anger rose to the surface again, "Probably the tranquilizing agent."

"Most likely," John agreed, pocketing the vial for safe keeping. "But I suppose it _could _have been used for something else."

Shaw continued to examine the contents of the room, shaking her head in response. "Doubt it." She made her way over to John and also helped herself to a few vials. "Truth serum is a placebo. People only tell the truth under the influence because they think they don't have a choice. It wouldn't work on someone who knows better."

"Point taken." John conceded in agreement. He would have been surprised if, for all of her expertise in various fields, Root _didn't _know that little fact about truth serum. He watched with a curious eye as Shaw stooped to examine something in the doorway. She picked up the object and stood, holding it out for John to see. Root's implant.

The hacking. Root's missing implant. Someone went to great lengths to make sure she couldn't communicate with the machine.

After another sweep through the building, they decided they'd found everything there was to be found and returned to the street. Both were even more worried by what they'd found. Even if the machine's communications were restored, Root wouldn't be able to talk to it. Without that, she wouldn't know what she was up against even if she somehow did manage to escape.

The pair made it all the way down the block before a payphone on Shaw's left began to ring. She stopped short, casting a wary glance in that direction and then looked expectantly at Reese. He simply returned her look with a knowing expression of his own. "You should probably get that."

"Why me?" Shaw sounded peeved, incredulous, and surprised. The machine almost never contacted her; most often electing to give Reese or Finch the messages that were not directed to Root. Why would that be different now? "She never talks to me. You're the gopher, you answer it."

Reese smirked just slightly at Shaw's defiance. "Come on, Shaw. If the machine's calling you now, it's for a reason. It'd be rude not to pick up."

With a roll of her eyes, Shaw exhaled a deep exasperated breath and reached for the phone. "Fuck it.

She was surprised when she put the phone to her ear at how weak the machine sounded to her. She didn't even communicate with it regularly and it was clear to her that there was a definite struggle going on. Still, she understood the message very clearly and the meaning of it brought the vengeful flames back into her eyes.

"Hey Harold." She spoke into her comm. in a voice that was deceptively innocent. " Thought you might wanna know: your machine's talking again."

Finch's brow arched in pleasant surprise as he read through yet another e-mail. "That's great, but it's still a bit ill-advised for us to be speaking on comms., Miss Shaw. Root's earpiece could be used to spy on us."

"We've got that covered, Finch." Reese replied, "It was left at the warehouse."

Finch nodded. That was one less thing to worry about. "I was just about to call you two; I've just been on the phone with Detective Fusco. He went to Hotel Moscow to question Vladimir Denisov and his associates about the hit placed on our accountant. I ask if he might've seen anything unusual. He said he didn't see a trace of Root."

"Yeah, well, the machine disagrees." Shaw growled lightly, that dangerous tone from earlier in the subway threatening to make another appearance as she and John continued to walk the streets.

"I'm warning you now, Finch. I'm about to go do some questioning of my own, and you're not gonna like my methods."

Finch just sighed in response, resigning himself to the fact that he would have to trust Shaw and Reese's judgment. They were out in the field and nothing he could say at this point would change Shaw's mind. There was also the fact that the machine seemed to have told them to go to the mob. That, and part of him agreed that something didn't quite add up about Hotel Moscow. He just couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Harold just hoped this would not bite them all in the ass.

* * *

Once again, thanks for reading! I hope you're enjoying the story! Please R &amp; R!


	8. Chapter 8

Before I begin this chapter I just want to take a moment to tell you all how much I appreciate that you've taken the time to keep up with this story. I sincerely hope you'll continue to enjoy how it plays out. As always, I own nothing and am not profiting from this fic in anyway. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 8:

Even as Shaw and Reese were hard at work pursuing leads and Harold was busy trying to dig up new leads that could lead them to her, Root sat in her captivity squaring off with the boy who believed himself to be the brains of the operation; the child prodigy known as Gabriel Hayward. The only other time they'd met, they'd been acting as the interfaces of their mutual machine gods. Root really couldn't glean anything about the boy from that experience; they had not been themselves in that classroom. This would be their first real meeting face to face. No machines, no interfaces.

Just Root and Gabriel. Each of them exposed for the other to see.

Gabriel gave Root an appraising look and pulled up a chair from nearby. "It's been a while, Root. I'm sure you're wondering why you're here."

It was an absurd statement really. If her reasoning skills were a bit less sharp, of course she would be wondering! As it was, Root could hazard a few guesses as to why she'd been abducted. The fact that she was still alive could only mean that they had a use for her. Nevertheless, she allowed him that bit of small talk.

"You know…now that you mention it, there is something I've been meaning to address." She smiled sweetly at the boy, "The hospitality around here _really _does need some work."

"Now," She spoke, looking at him with eyes as innocent as her tone as she played the part of the ignorant woman, "since you brought it up; maybe you wouldn't mind telling me why I am here. I mean, what could you possibly want from a simple girl like me?"

An eerie expression passed over Gabriel's face; one that said he knew everyone's secrets. It was the kind of expression that usually eluded children of his age, but came with the territory of being a genius in the body of a child. "It's simple, really. I want what's in your head." He punctuated the remark with a tap of his small index finger to Root's left temple.

She continued to play ignorant, frowning slightly at his gesture. "There's a lot in my head. I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific."

"The code. I want the machine's code." That was something that Root knew she absolutely could not allow. The machine's code in the hands of a ten year old sociopath and his ex-government/Decima handlers would spell disasters. There was also curiosity in her mind. Why her? Harold knew the code as well, and he would've made a less risky target. Why not take him?

"Why do you need me for that?" She asked with a raised eyebrow, "I'm sure you realize you could've put Harold in this chair."

"Yes," Gabriel assented, "that option was considered, but…asking Mr. Finch for the machine's code would mean an extra gun to contend with and you're ability to speak with the it should it manage to recover from my little attack."

"How clever of you."

The boy smiled confidently at her in acknowledgment, as if to silently agree with her sarcasm. "I am a genius."

Root almost felt sorry for the kid. He was so full of himself and confident in his abilities that he couldn't see the obvious. He was merely the means for powers greater than him to get their hands on the technology of Harold's machine. He would be every bit as expendable as she should he accomplish the task of retrieving that information. Feeling a twinge of compassion that was uncharacteristic considering her predicament, Root felt compelled to say something.

"Kid, you have no idea how far in over your head you are." She warned with a slight shake of her head.

He just looked at her with amusement. "Maybe not, but you will give me the code."

"No. I don't think I will."

Root's reply was instant. He could ask all he wanted. She didn't care how he begged, cajoled, pleaded or manipulated. They could do all they wanted to her; she would not give up the code. She wouldn't betray Her like that; she wouldn't betray the team. For a moment, they stared each other down like two fighters sizing each other up before a match. Gabriel's hand moved behind his back.

"I thought you might say that." He took a step forward wearing the same creepy expression he had earlier in their conversation and pulled a tazer from behind his back. Root was tossed back to a time in the past when she had been in a similar situation with Sameen. Only now, she was the one who found herself zip tied to a chair. She smiled fondly at the memory as she stared Gabriel down.

"Before you do that…I really have to warn you that I enjoy this kind of thing."

The boy shrugged in response, inching the tazer closer to Root's neck. "Then I guess we're going to have a lot of fun."

Had she been a woman of more stable mental faculties, Root might've seen how twisted her situation really was; zip tied to a chair and being subjected to torture at the hands of a genius who clearly wasn't meant for fighting. A child genius, at that. But, as the stun gun made contact with her neck, Root couldn't muster up enough humanity to be concerned about the dark path Gabriel was stepping down.

The electricity blazed an all too familiar searing trail through her body. It pumped through her veins like a river of fire. Any other time and place, Root would've welcomed the sweet agony of electricity caressing her body accompanied by heart palpations and shortness of breath. Now, even as the lightning coiled itself around her muscles, squeezed, and lapped at the synapses of every neuron in her body, she could only focus on the precarious situation Team Machine was in. What did these guys have to do to convince a ten year old to torture?

Root heaved a gasp that was like surfacing for air after coming up from the depths of some unknown lake. If the waters were torment then the tide was her captivity. The sweat that had formed at her hairline began to roll down her forehead and she rolled her eyes up to meet Gabriel's, that all knowing smugness of his still present in them.

"It's funny…" she panted slightly "You don't strike me as the violent type."

"You don't _know _me." The statement was forceful, and even a bit waspish. It was a slight crack in the boy's well composed demeanor and he probably hadn't meant to be quite as sharp with her as he had been, but it had been enough for Root to take note. The words were true enough; she didn't know him. There were a few bits of information The Machine had fed her just prior to the meeting of the AIs that she could still recall. The present moment excepted, the boy wasn't by any means the violent type. He already had quite the history of hacking accomplishments and technological saavy under his belt at his young age, but there was nothing in his record to suggest violent sociopathic behavior. The Machine had pegged him as more of a narcissist. That led Root to wonder again why? Why now?

She didn't have the time to dwell.

The tazer met her shoulder this time. It could've been her imagination, but it seemed a bit less intense than the first time. Her muscles contracted in rapid succession against the currents of electricity travelling through her body and she couldn't quite be sure, but she was either hearing things, or that was her own voice making strangled sounds.

_Shit!_

There was the shortness of breath again once the tazer was pulled away. The gasps came in short bursts and she coughed a little bit this time, giving a half glare, half smirk to Gabriel. The boy stared unhappily in return.

"The code. Please."

Root looked deep into his eyes for a moment, searching. She didn't know what exactly she was looking to find, but she figured she would recognize it. A slight trace of anger? Impatience? That lingering look of confidence? No.

There was, however, something else. Beyond all that, she saw the faintest glimpse of humanity…or maybe vulnerability. She sensed something else she couldn't quite put her finger on, but she knew where to strike at the moment.

A cocky grin covered Root's face as she stared him down. "Was that supposed to hurt? You know, if you were really meant for this kind of thing, you'd know how to make it hurt."

"Shut up." He went to taze her again, but stopped short when she continued to speak.

Root looked at him, curious at the strange sadness she felt for him. He might be her punisher at the moment, but in the grand scheme, he was yet another pawn to be used and discarded by Decima. Maybe it was The Machine's influence. Maybe it was conscience. Either way, Root felt she had to do something about that.

"You may be a genius, Gabriel, but you are just a boy. Boys your age shouldn't be killing and torturing."

He hovered over her with the tazer for several moments, thinking about her words. There was a conflict in his eyes and Root thought for a second that he might put the tazer away, but in a sudden movement, he prodded her a third time. She barely had time to recover before he descended on her a fourth time with the weapon…and then a fifth.

The frustration and ambivalence were written all over his face at this point and all semblance of the confidence he had was gone. Breathing almost as heavily as she was, he looked at Root with a gaze that seemed to beg for something; either confirmation of his prowess with torture or a way out of his role in all of this. Root couldn't be sure which. She doubted he knew himself what he was asking of her with that look. She just stared right back as her breathing slowed back to normal and smirked. Sure, a tazer would hurt like a bitch in anyone's hands, but he couldn't be allowed to believe he had any place among the likes of experienced killers such as herself, Shaw, Reese or Lambert…let alone that he could have any control over two factions of such people. Root could use the doubt that she'd planted in his mind to her advantage.

"I told you…you aren't made for this, kid."

* * *

"Hey, Finch. We're here." John grunted.

The two assassins were in Brighton Beach, parked in a quiet alley way near the back entrance of Hotel Moscow. Shaw had reluctantly agreed after much persuasion that they needed to go about this task quietly. Finch was still fretting back in the subway even as he prepared for his part of this operation.

"Alright, wait just a moment. I need to get into their security system to make sure you aren't detected."

Shaw huffed with a confident smirk on her face as the anticipation welled up inside her and she gripped her gun tightly. "It'd save time if we were a little less cloak and dagger about all this." The comment was mumbled more to herself than John or Finch, but both had heard.

Harold heaved a worried breath as his fingers danced across the keyboard, typing complex commands to breach his way into the system. "That may be so, Miss Shaw, but we're trying to get Root back. I, for one, am not willing to make avoidable sacrifices to accomplish that."

That was the end of the conversation. Furious as she still was, Shaw had calmed enough to be reasoned with to an extent. She wanted nothing more than to paint the town red, but they were down one of their number and swimming in a sea surrounded by sharks. As much as she wanted to barge into that building and gun down every one of those Russian mafia assholes to find a lead on Root, her logical and reason knew that the real fight should be saved for what was left of Samaritan's operatives and their Anarchy Council cohorts.

"It's done."

As soon as Finch spoke, Shaw and Reese exited the vehicle and quietly made their way to the front of the hotel after Shaw checked to make sure that the back exit was unlocked.

"You two should know: I recovered some interesting footage from the surveillance when I shut it down."

"What is it, Finch?" Shaw groused, sounding the faintest bit hopeful. She made her way with Reese to the check-in counter pretending to be a couple in order not to draw attention to themselves for the next part of the plan.

"The footage from the camera feed in the back hallway appears to show Ms. Groves being dragged from the hotel by a man in a ski mask."

"That doesn't exactly rule out Russian involvement." Reese answered, turning away from the counter.

"No, but it does suggest that she wasn't returned to the hotel at any point."

The two made their way to the back of the lobby, closer to their objective. Shaw considered that information for a moment; at this point she was sure the Russians were involved some way in all of this. She just didn't know how. Maybe she was sure because it was the only lead the machine had to offer, and despite the lingering vestiges of her distrust, she had been more than willing to accept the bone when it was thrown to her. Whatever the case, Mr. Denisov had a lot to answer for.

"Thanks, Finch." Shaw spoke gruffly.

"You're welcome." Finch returned to the task of sifting through mafia e-mails in an attempt to distract himself from his growing concern. "I suppose any further protest would be a waste of breath, I really must tell you I don't care for this. You'll be making a lot of enemies if things don't go according to plan."

The last thing they needed was a large portion of Brighton Beach out for their blood while they tried to deal with the bigger threat.

"Relax, Harold." John spoke up and Shaw was quick to comment herself. "Yeah, Finch. You wouldn't want the hair you have left to start falling out."

Finch huffed out an ever so slight chuckle before responding indignantly, "Oh, I assure you. If and when that happens, I have no doubt in my mind that the three of you will be responsible."

Reese and Shaw both smirked devilishly at the comment as they rounded the corner onto the back hallway and took separate sides. The search took less than two minutes. They went room by room, knocking out the incidental members of the mafia that they happened upon until Reese ended up outside of Denisov's office. He was seated behind the desk by himself.

The pair made quick work of him, knocking him unconscious and binding his hands and feet before dragging him out the back door and tossing him into the trunk. Several minutes later, they arrived at the old abandoned library. The three of them had decided prior to Reese and Shaw's arrival to Brighton Beach that the library would be the best neutral location to question the man. Of course, what Shaw had in mind for him could only be considered "questioning" in the loosest sense.

A good while later, Denisov was roused from sedation with a hard blow to the chin that sent him reeling over in the chair he was tied to. He looked around, startled. He was disoriented, surprised, and above all, angry. He realized that he seemed to be in some sort of makeshift cage with an unfamiliar woman standing over him…and she looked pissed.

"Well," He spat, blood flying from his split lip as Reese set his chair upright again. "That's a hell of a hello." He fixed Shaw with that same dangerous gaze that had made Root take note of him, only now it was much less subdued.

John addressed him from his place to the side, speaking more harshly than his usual calm tone. "We have a few questions for you. Consider that a preview of what you'll get if you don't cooperate."

Denisov laughed openly, "Go fuck yourselves. You think you're tough abducting a leader of the bratva? I've taken shits scarier than the two of you."

Shaw was pissed at his attitude. He had answers and he _would_ tell them what they needed to know. He needed a little attitude adjustment. By the time she was through with him, he'd know real fear. She went to strike him again, but John grabbed her hand at the last second and waved her away.

"Trust me; we're a lot scarier than we look. My friend here is the last person you want to piss off, and she's already very angry. So here's what's gonna happen. I'm gonna give you one more chance to answer my questions, or I'll just let her do the asking." Reese looked darkly at the Russian in front of him, boring into him with a burning gaze that conveyed his own suppressed anger and frustration. He gave the man one final warning. "I promise, that won't go well for you."

"And how are you so sure that things will go well for you? Even now, I could have armed men on their way here." He looked smugly at Reese, who returned the same look while Shaw fidgeted impatiently in the background.

"That seems unlikely. I mean…considering the latest news on the street is that there's a coupe brewing inside your organization. Besides, they'd have no way to track us here even if we hadn't tossed your cell phone." Reese looked around at the cage they were seated in while Denisov seethed with quiet rage. "You see this cage? It's a Faraday cage. It stops all kinds of signals, including GPS tracking signals. It was originally constructed for a different purpose, but it'll do just fine for our needs."

"Now," John reached into his pocket and pulled out a photo of Root and pushed it across the table. "Tell me. Have you seen this woman?"

Vlad gave the photo a cursory look before casually shrugging his shoulders. "Maybe I have. What concern is it of yours?" He was hiding something, but what Reese couldn't exactly say; not without a little more prodding. He decided to try the gentle approach just a little bit longer before turning things over to Shaw. "Security footage from your building shows her being dragged out by a masked male. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

The Russian was stubborn, holding his ground as he looked defiantly up at Reese with an expression that said he knew plenty. Reese entertained the idea that he may know who was responsible and where to find them without actually having knowledge of the incident himself. He'd seen just a brief flash of surprise in the man's eyes when he mentioned Root's abduction.

"I know _everything _that happens in my organization."

"Right, just like you knew you were about to be overthrown."

Shaw was getting even more restless, pacing in the cage behind John like an anxious tiger. None of this was getting them anywhere and they needed to get to the point. Reese sensed her agitation and opened his mouth to steer the conversation, but Denisov spoke first.

"You seem to know a lot about me, but I know nothing of you. I don't like that." John smirked grimly, he'd know plenty by the time this was over.

"We're just a couple of concerned citizens looking to help out a friend."

"There's a saying about that, no?" Vlad smirked crookedly "Curiosity killed the cat."

"Hmm." John nodded, standing from his seat. It was clear he wasn't going to be getting anything of value from the man. He was through playing games. It was time for a less tactful approach. "That's true, but in this case, our curiosity just might kill you."

Shaw was in John's vacated space in an instant, looming over the Russian boss. She looked at him rather like a predator sizing up her prey before the kill for just a few moments before pulling out her folding knife, cutting his binds, and swiftly running the knife into the table through his right hand.

Vlad steeled himself against the sudden pain. He kept a white knuckled grip on the table with his left hand and fought to keep his breathing normal while he hunched over just slightly.

"Bitch…" He spoke through his gritted teeth, Shaw paid him know attention. She'd stabbed him just to show that she wouldn't take any bullshit like Reese had. She was not to be fucked with.

"Alright, Vlad, here's how this is gonna go: You tell me what I need to know and you'll be fine…mostly, you don't cooperate and I'll show you what fear really is." She leaned down close to his face, locking eyes with his own mismatched pair as she spoke in a low, threatening tone. "One. Finger. At a time." Shaw pulled a pair of plyers from her pocket and slapped them forcefully onto the table. She was about to start her own line of questioning when she was interrupted by Harold's voice in her ear, addressing both of his field agents.

"Mr. Reese…Ms. Shaw, have I missed anything?" Shaw groaned inwardly at the interruption, but took a seat, keeping a close eye on Denisov.

"Actually, Finch, we were just getting started." Even Reese sounded slightly miffed at the interjection into their interrogation. Finch was unintentionally giving the Russian time to build his wall back up.

"Oh, good! I'm not too late. I found something of interest in those e-mails I retrieved. It seems that the missing money Mr. Rezniczek mentioned was being paid to an account belonging to a Mr. John Hancock. It seemed familiar, so I researched a little further and realized that I'd come across his file before. He's a former FBI agent with major connections to various factions on both sides of the law. Care to take a guess who he supplied with hardware over the past two years?"

Reese didn't even have to think about it. A man named John Hancock who was high up in an organization seeking to dismantle the government; that sounded very familiar. It didn't come as a surprise that he would provide aid to a group like Vigilance-which had similarly aligned goals.

"Peter Collier."

"Indeed, Mr. Reese." Payment to the Anarchy Council would explain the unusually hi-tech setup at Hotel Moscow that the entire team had taken note of, but what was the purpose of the Mafia in all of this? To what end was the Anarchy Council aligning itself with Hotel Moscow? Shaw didn't particularly care unless the answer would help her find Root.

"Thanks for the update, Finch." Shaw spoke, "Now, if you don't mind, I'll be getting back to business."

He _did _mind. He minded _a lot. _It eased his mind only slightly that Shaw was about to do horrible things to a horrible person, but he resigned himself to the fact that it would be futile to resist. Still, there was one more thing left to say.

"Actually, Ms. Shaw, I do hope you won't take too long. I'm afraid—" He was cut off by two clicks as both of his agents turned their comms off, not interested in hearing any more of his protests. Unfortunately, he wasn't protesting at all.

The machine's monitoring and tracking functions had come back online to a limited extent and he had just picked up an unknown group of vehicles heading for the library. It certainly wouldn't be the mafia. With the Faraday cage, they wouldn't have the means to track Denisov to the library; neither would anyone else unless they knew where to look.

"Who are you?"

Not having to worry about any further interference from Finch, Shaw turned back to the smirking mob boss. He chuckled smugly at her. "You're white, but there's something…_exotic_…about you. You're half middle-eastern?"

Her curiosity momentarily trumping her anger, Shaw decided to play along. "Persian. What's it to you?"

He laughed, "I can't stand the fucking Afghans, and the Iranians are no different." Shaw's face fell at the comment under the weight of her irritation. She hadn't been around this man for very long, but it was long enough to know that she didn't like him, and now he was indirectly insulting her and her mother.

"Do I need to put a hole in your other hand, Vlad?" She growled lowly, brandishing her firearm. "I don't give a rat's ass about your racism. Even if I did, I don't have the time for it." She plucked the picture of Root up from the table and shoved it in his face. "_This_ is what I care about."

"We know that a group called Decima is responsible for abducting this woman, and we know that they're working with another faction called Anarchy Council. We also know that Hotel Moscow has paid the Anarchy Council. You know something. What?"

_You of all people should know that torture produces unreliable leads._

As soon as the thought popped into Shaw's head it was banished. She didn't care; she just wanted to hurt anyone who might be slightly connected to Root's abduction. Besides, she could ask for a lead from the machine if she really had to.

For now, she just wanted to wipe the cocky smirk off this bastard's face.

"Maybe I do."

Shaw was quick to grab his hand that wasn't pinned to the table and twist it painfully back in a submissive hold. "_What_…do you…know? She asked again through gritted teeth, reaching for the plyers that sat in front of his pinned right hand. "Think carefully."

"Okay…okay." Vlad wheezed through the pain of Shaw's iron grip on his hand. "There is a building. A warehouse. In SoHo." The words weren't entirely out of his mouth yet before Shaw slammed his hand onto the table and then brought the plyers down onto his pinky finger. He would never have use of the finger again once it healed…if he lived.

"Shut up." Shaw demanded harshly in response to his pained screams. She grabbed his head and forced him to look at her, "You lie to me again and I'll just rip the finger off instead of breaking it. We already checked the warehouse."

Shaw let go of his head and pointed sharply at the photo on the table to punctuate her words.

"_Where is she?"_

* * *

That's it for this chapter! Thank you for reading. I'm sorry it took me a bit longer to update. I just got a new computer and it took me a bit to get everything set up. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the read!


	9. Chapter 9

Hello again! Once again, I apologize for the delay in updating. Also, in light of the fact that Tuesday's episode featured similar elements as my last chapter, I do feel compelled to say that the chapter was written prior to the February 3rd episode. Anyway, thank you all for continuing to read and, as always, I hope you continue to enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 9:

It was only a few minutes at most. It felt much longer, though—to both of them. Several sixty second increments stretched into an eternity of suffering. For Vlad, it was a pain unlike anything he'd been dealt before; the assassin had been nothing short of true to her word when she promised to make him suffer. Though he tried to hide it, Shaw's medical knowledge and vast array of firsthand experience told her plenty about the pain she was inflicting. For Shaw, each little grain of sand slipping inside the proverbial hourglass served to intensify the anger, fear, and anxiety in her gut that held an intensity in it that she'd long thought herself incapable of feeling.

Both of them stared each other down on separate sides of the table, sweating for different reasons. John looked on, debating how much longer he should let this continue while a bruised and bloodied Denisov bored into Shaw with his gaze. The defiance was still there, but it had slowly been reduced to the mere flicker of a dying flame. In addition to the knife in his left hand, the Russian now sported a shattered pinky on his left hand, two other missing fingers, and a bloody nose and several bruises from the beatings he took in between Shaw's handiwork with the pliers.

After taking a few moments to collect herself, Shaw questioned him once more. "You ready to talk yet?"

"Please…" Vlad wheezed pitifully, still trying to convey strength even as the pain of his injuries started to cripple his resolve, "They'll kill me."

"Not if I beat them to it." Shaw growled, drawing her gun on him and aiming straight for his head. On the surface, he appear unmoved, laughing at the gesture only to begin coughing until blood coated his lips.

"Go ahead…you Persian bitch."

"Oh, I'll kill you either way, but if you don't tell me what I need to know, it'll be slow and painful…and you've still got a few fingers and all ten toes left."

John spoke her name as if he were about to protest and Shaw turned to silence him with a sharp look that said she would do it whether he supported it or not. In reality, that look was purely for Vlad and Reese recognized the underlying edge to it that told him she didn't intend to drag this out much longer. Shaw had already considered her options and decided that wasting too much time with the man would be counterproductive, no matter what he knew or how much she wanted to cause him pain.

Apparently, her words were the last stones needed to topple his wall of resolve. He sighed in resignation, slumping back into the chair. "Fine, Fine…those people; The people you're up against? They came to me…offered to take care of threats to my reign in return for a small cut of business profits and a place they could use for their operations if necessary."

The picture became more clear to both agents as they listened, with Reese chiming in once Vlad had finished speaking. "And in return, they supplied you with more sophisticated hardware. Is that about right?"

Denisov nodded in response as Shaw took over the questioning, "But that still doesn't tell us where our friend is."

"I'm getting to that…" He was interrupted by a coughing fit and more blood spattered onto the table in front of him. Even if she didn't put a bullet in his brain, she'd caused enough internal bleeding in her rage that he might well die without medical attention. "There is a shipping company at the harbor. It's part of our trafficking operation. That's where you'll find them."

"What's the name of that company?" Reese asked as the man lapsed into another coughing fit.

"Sparrow Shipments."

In a fit of conscience, Shaw briefly debated treating the man's injuries, but knew that nothing could be done about his internal bleeding at this point. Neither Shaw nor Reese had much time to consider what should be done with Vlad, anyway. Moments after he'd given them the information, the sound of glass breaking somewhere in the library sent the pair into a state of full alert.

Reese and Shaw looked at each other curiously as they drew their weapons. Hopefully, it wasn't a serious threat; they only had thirty rounds of ammo between the two of them. The cage, the lack of cell phone, and their turned off ear pieces ruled out a Russian cavalry…as did the fact that they knew they hadn't been spotted by Hotel Moscow during their operation. All of those things also meant that it was highly unlikely they had been tracked here by any technological means, unless there was something they hadn't accounted for.

"Sit tight." John quipped, knowing full well that Vlad couldn't go anywhere at the moment. He followed Shaw out of the cage and they made their way toward the source of the noise. Shaw stopped John at the end of the book lined hallway and motioned for him to listen. Footsteps. It sounded like there were at least three different sets; obviously they were doing a sweep of the room before heading into the pair's direction.

They waited for just the right moment.

When the first man came around the corner, Shaw grabbed him before he could process her presence and kneed him in the abdomen a couple times before incapacitating him with an elbow to the face. Meanwhile, John darted from behind her and took cover behind a table as the remaining two men opened fire in his direction. The two men ducked behind cover near the door of the library. One of them was clipped in the shoulder with a bullet from Shaw as he ducked behind a table.

"Cover me." Reese said after they exchanged a few rounds of fire. It was apparent that the two sides were equally skilled in firefighting and the two agents of the machine didn't have the ammo to waste on a lengthy firefight…especially not if their adversaries had more clips. This would have to be finished by hand.

John carefully came out of cover and zig-zagged his way across the room as Shaw drew fire from the two men. Reese ducked back into cover near his targets and Shaw picked up on his plan. She strategically distracted them from the fact that her partner was inching his way closer to them behind cover. After a few moments, Reese reached out and swiftly grabbed the gun from the man closer to him and kicked the gun away from the other one when he went to aim it at him. Shaw took that as her cue to join the fray, charging across the room to tangle with the second man while Reese brawled with the first.

The room became a mess of kicks, punches, elbows, and chokeholds as the four fought. Surprisingly, Reese and Shaw found that the men were almost on par with them in this area as well. Even so, both were eventually able to gain the upper hand. Reese took his opponent down first with a sharp overhand punch to the face when the man left himself open for just a moment. Shaw wasn't far behind, working her way behind the other man and yanking him down into the floor in a sleeper hold.

"Well," Shaw breathed, "That was fun."

"Let's see if we can find out who these guys are." Reese stooped to search the man closest to him while Shaw did the same, moving on to the third man after a few moments.

"This one's got a Sat phone." Shaw held up the bulky satellite phone to show Reese, coming to stand next to him.

Reese spoke, still crouched next to his victim examining the unconscious man for an identity. "Expert shooting skills, proficiency in Krav Maga, a sat phone, and a radio…" He noted the earpiece protruding from the man's right ear. "What does that sound like to you, Shaw?"

"Government. But who?"

Reese had gone to the man's belt line looking for his radio on the off chance that it might provide any clues since there was no cell phone.

"I think I might have an answer to that."

Shaw peered over Reese's shoulder and saw the word hidden on the radio's battery, "Indigo". That could only mean Control was behind this, but that raised more questions than it answered.

"ISA." Shaw confirmed, "But why send the rookies after us? Sure, these guys can fight, but they made a scene of their entrance and didn't clear the room properly. Why would Control send rookies knowing that they were gonna get their butts kicked?"

It was a quandary that defied the woman's usual modus operandi. Clearly she didn't want them dead, or she would've sent a more skilled team after them. John pondered the situation for a moment. It was possible they had stirred something up in alerting Control to the activities of Anarchy Council and the remains of Decima.

"Maybe it's not about us." Shaw looked curiously at John, silently asking him to elaborate on that statement. "I think this might've been Control's way of sending us a message."

"She's about to get her hands dirty." Shaw realized, sharing a knowing look with Reese. Their situation was about to get even more complicated.

"We need to hurry and get to Root before this turns into a war." John agreed, "ISA won't care about collateral damage if they get to Decima and the AC before we can get out."

Without a word, Shaw swiftly moved back toward the cage. They needed to get to the harbor, but there was something else that needed to be handled first. She felt strangely contrite about the brutal extremes she'd gone to get answers from Denisov. There was no time to patch him up, but it was the least they could do to get him to a hospital. That might also ease Finch's reservations about their actions.

Shaw yanked her knife from Vlad's hand and ignored his pained scream, speaking to him brusquely. "Get up."

John had turned his earpiece back on to speak to Harold. From his place in the subway, Finch's shoulders dropped in relief when he saw John's blip pop back up on the screen.

"Mr. Reese? Oh, thank goodness. Are you two alright?"

"We're fine, Finch, but we had a little company."

"Ah yes, I was concerned about that. The machine is not yet fully functional, but it did pick up multiple blips proceeding toward your location. I would've warned you, but unfortunately, I was cut off."

The last part of Finch's transmission was spoken with just enough accusation in his otherwise neutral tone to make Reese feel a slight twinge of guilt for his actions. As reprehensible as the Russian in the other room might have been, Reese and Shaw had intentionally gone against Harold's wishes in order to get information from him. Reese had stood by and allowed Shaw to become the monster that Harold always vehemently insisted none of them should be. Worse than that, they had both shut him out entirely in the act of cutting off communications. There would be a lecture; that Reese was certain of. But for now…

"It's alright, Finch." Shaw answered, having turned on her own comm to listen to the conversation, "They gave us plenty of warning on their own, but we have another problem. They're feds…ISA."

"Oh, dear."

"We think Control may be planning to take action against our pest problem." Reese added as the group made their way out of the library, "Do you think you can do anything to slow them down a little bit?"

There was nothing he could do about that, but there was an old adage that could be applicable to this situation. "The enemy of my enemy is my friend."

"You know…" Finch pondered for a moment, the light bulb going off over his head. " I think you may be thinking a bit too hastily into this situation, Mr. Reese. Control and the ISA are…dubious bedfellows, to say the least, but you could use this situation to your advantage with a suitable measure of finesse."

At his feet, bear whined and scratched at his leg, looking longingly up at the stray chew toy that had migrated to the corner of the desk. Harold picked up the toy and held it above Bear's head with a kind smile. "Bear…wachten." The response from the dog was a sharp _whuff _as he sat back on his haunches and looked at Finch with anticipation. Finch threw the toy up in the air and Bear grabbed it, running off happily with his tail wagging.

Harold turned his attention back to the conversation. "Sorry about that. I take it you were able to gather useful intelligence." He didn't know exactly what lengths his agents had gone to in order to get valuable information, but he felt his throat run dry and his stomach turn at the mere thought. He knew what they were both capable of, and what Shaw in particular was willing to do to find Root.

"Yeah." Shaw grunted with the effort of hoisting the partially comatose Russian into the back seat of their car. "You wouldn't be able to dig up an address for Sparrow Shipping, would you, Harold? It's at the harbor."

Finch turned to his keyboard to find the answer. "That's strange." He narrowed his eyes at the result on his screen in a perplexed manner. "There is indeed a listing for a Sparrow Shipping, Incorporated in the city harbor, but…it's only a partial listing. No address, no building number, and this number…" He did a quick search on the phone number, finding it suspicious. His intuition was confirmed by the result. "…is registered to a phone sex hotline operating out of Scranton, Pennsylvania."

Reese sped down the street, heading for the nearest hospital. He kept a keen eye on the road, but his mind was on Harold's information. He looked in the rearview at the unconscious Russian in the back seat. "Well, we can't rule anything out with Decima, but my guess is that the fake number has more to do with the Russians."

"Yes, but New York Harbor is one of the largest in the world. I'm afraid trying to find a building with only a name to go on would be rather like trying to find a needle in a haystack."

Shaw brooded quietly in the backseat. She took in the new pieces of information with a great deal of frustration. The feeling of being so close to her goal, yet so far was horrible. She chanced a glance at Vlad, considering waking him up to get more information, but she knew he wasn't in any shape to be any more useful. She sat that way as Finch's voice went on in her ear for what felt like hours. The numbing disappointment that permeated the air around her was only broken apart by the unexpected vibration of her cell phone in her pocket.

She pulled it out to look at the display, sensing Reese's gaze on her. Caller unknown. Shaw swiped right and put the phone to her ear and was greeted by the voice of Harold's machine. Her eyes lit up as she processed the information. The machine was telling her what they needed to know.

"Hey Finch, you know how you find a needle in a haystack? With a magnet."

* * *

Root didn't know how long she'd been left alone. Had it been an hour? Maybe three? Or perhaps only a few minutes. It had to be after dark by her reckoning; it was late afternoon when she'd been abducted. She couldn't tell. There were no windows in this room; only the single chair she sat in and painting tarp that covered every surface of the floor and walls. Her guess: it was for easy disposal of bodies. She assumed it wouldn't be for her, at least, not yet. She was still valuable to her captors.

It had been some time since she'd seen any sign of anyone. She'd been questioned by Lambert and Gabriel, then tortured, and left to sit in silence ever since. They were probably trying to wear her down leaving her alone with just her thoughts. No Machine…no sense of time. It had been quite a while since Root had been completely alone. Even in the nut house there were the visits with the doctor, the mutterings and shouts of other patients, and the occasional chats with Her. After, when she'd found her place within Harold's group of mercenaries, there was still the work, the looming threat of Samaritan, and The Machine to occupy her time. Even during periods when She was silent Root still had distractions in the battle against Samaritan, the numbers, and her growing feelings for a certain woman in black.

This was different.

Root was well and truly alone with her thoughts. The haunting visions of everyone she was ever foolish enough to care about took full advantage of the Machine's absence and the silence. It was these visions that Root kept at bay with all the distractions she didn't have now plus a well crafted mask of flirtatious confidence. A mask she'd let slip for each member of the family she had in Team Machine, but only removed completely for one. Visions of her mother, her father, Hannah, and a few lost numbers flowed through her mind in the stillness. Even some of Shaw from that day in the stock exchange…then that face when Root plunged the needle into her neck days earlier. This all continued until Root was struck with a spark of inspiration.

The good thing about being left alone with her thoughts, as she was, was that it provided her with the chance to be creative; to think of a new distraction. She decided that distraction would be trying to work out an escape plan. The visions faded back into the corners of her mind where they usually resided as she began to concentrate on working free from her bindings. Now, she was practiced to a certain extent in the art of escape, but each of her limbs was bound to a separate part of the chair. This would prove to be particularly complicated. Shaw had taken the time to pass on some of her knowledge to Root on various things from fighting to escape; she just had to focus. What would Shaw do?

For several long minutes, the hacker worked at her bindings, working one limb free at a time. Her right arm was freed first, closely followed by the left. The feet took a bit more work. It wasn't so easy to work her boots free of the zip ties at her ankles. With enough effort, sweat, and even a little pain, she was able to work the ties into just the right spot on the chair to allow her to slip free. Root stood, rubbing at her sore wrists with satisfaction. She knew, unfortunately, that this had been the easy part.

The thought had no sooner passed through her than the door knob in front of her began to shift. With agility worthy of a feline, she dashed to the only hiding spot available—the hinged side of the opening door. Root watched from behind the open door as the boy stepped back into the room. She couldn't see his face, but his hesitant body language denoted his confusion. She carefully closed the door and locked it before slipping from the corner with a smirk on her face.

"Back so soon, kid?"

He gave an almost imperceptible jump at the sound of Root's voice before turning to face her. "I'd prefer Gabriel, if you don't mind."

Root shrugged, "Alright then, _Gabriel._" She offered the boy a playful roll of her eyes, "What brings you back? Are you here to play again?"

"Not this time." Gabriel smirked, "I'm just here to chat."

"Oh?" Root scoffed, "Well, I'm afraid you're out of luck. I'm not really in a talking mood at the moment." This boy's arrogance was amusing; the way he could act as if he had any control over her when he was locked in the room with her and she was twice his size.

"You don't really have a say in the matter. You are, after all, in a building full of armed operatives."

"Yes," Root grinned with her best pirate smile, a slightly predatory smirk that had instilled fear into many a man. "…and judging by the silence outside that door, none of them are close by at the moment. I don't think you realize the seriousness of your situation, kid."

"Why don't you enlighten me, Ms. Groves."

He was testing her. He had to be. There was no way a kid of his intellect could believe that he actually stood a chance locked in a room with an experienced killer. But, what angle was he playing?

"Well…" Root drawled, "For starters, you're locked in a room with a killer twice your size. Of course, killing a kid would be a new low, even for me, but I'm sure I could manage." She was rewarded with a hint of nervousness in the boy's eyes as she stalked a bit closer and continued to speak, "And we talked about this earlier, Gabriel. You might think you're in charge, you might think you're the brain, but you're not. You're just another ambitious fool, blinded by his own ego."

"Really?" Gabriel scoffed, his confident mask faltering just slightly just as it had before. "There may not be anything left of Samaritan's programming, but we _will _get that code one way or another. When we do, Decima will make a new machine."

Root laughed openly. The veil was so far over Gabriel's eyes, he was practically stepping on it. Such was the trouble with narcissistic geniuses…or really anyone with a narcissism complex. They were often blind to certain aspects of reality; perhaps even willfully blind.

"I think you're overlooking one tiny detail, Gabriel. Decima and the Anarchy Council both want the code for one reason only, but that reason is not shared. One of them wants to make a new machine, the other wants to shut down the existing machine. This alliance they have will break at some point." Root looked at him curiously, cocking her head to one side. "How will you fit into the picture when that happens?"

There was silence for a few moments. Root watched Gabriel intently. He stood opening and closing his mouth several times, looking as if he wanted to say something but the words were lost in his throat. Root took his silence as an opportunity to continue to chip away at him.

"Any one of those people out there can gather information and torture. But you? You're the only one they know who's capable of hacking into the machine. You're just an expendable pawn now."

As she spoke, Gabriel's façade gave way under the weight of her words until he stood in front of her stripped of his mask. With Gabriel baring his true soul before her for the first time, Root could see the many emotions written all over his face: Worry, fear, anxiety, apprehension. She'd broken him, but down to what she couldn't exactly be sure. What came next was not unexpected, but still came as something of a surprise.

"I know." Gabriel spoke, resignation in his face and on his tongue. Root cast a quizzical gaze over him at the admission, prompting an explanation. "Everything you say is true."

"So, why go along with it, then?" Root looked at him warily. She didn't think that this was a ploy, but she couldn't be too careful.

"The old man had my parents killed." The man in question was, of course, John Greer. It hardly surprised Root that he would sink that low to secure an analogue interface for his machine. The suspicion was confirmed a moment later. "He told me I would do great things, that I was needed. Then he took me into his care until Samaritan came online. After it was destroyed, Decima's remains didn't waste much time coming for me. They told me I would help them or die."

Root searched Gabriel's face and body language for any sign of deceit. There was none to be found. The truth and the pain of his ordeal were written plainly across his face. At first, she'd thought he was just a foolish brat. It turned out he was just another number, even if The Machine hadn't been able to assign it to her…to them. In that moment, it became clear to her what she had to do.

"Well, Gabriel. That won't be a problem for you now." She smiled, "What do you say to a little team up, hmm?" The boy returned her smile, picking up on her suggestion. "What did you have in mind?"

"Well, first you can tell me where I can find a weapon."

* * *

There's nine! Thank you all for reading! Please R &amp; R!


	10. Chapter 10

Hello and welcome to the tenth installment! As always, thanks for reading. I own nothing of Person of Interest except for merchandise.

Chapter 10:

* * *

Now that they had been provided with a definite location, Reese and Shaw proceeded with their objective with renewed hope and determination. The first order of business was a quick run to the hospital. John skidded to a halt outside the emergency room of the hospital closest to the library just long enough for Shaw to open the door and push the unconscious Russian out. The car peeled out as John floored the gas pedal and headed off for New York City Harbor.

The drive took minutes with Reese's aggressive driving. Soon enough, they found themselves sitting outside of the building they'd been directed to. It appeared heavily guarded—a contrast to the low number of operatives Reese had encountered in SoHo. Given Decima's dwindling presence in New York City, it was safe to assume that many of these guards were ex-feds. John turned the car's headlights off before proceeding any closer into the danger zone.

It was dark, so the pair had that element of cover to their advantage on the perimeter of the building. Inside the building would be another matter. There was no telling how many enemies they would be up against.

"I don't see any more of our government friends here, yet." John remarked, scanning the area around this part of the harbor for any unusual activity that may hint at ISA presence.

"No," Shaw confirmed as Reese carefully maneuvered the car around the back of the building, scanning for a good point of access. "…but that doesn't mean they won't be later."

Reese continued to look around the building for a weak spot in the defenses as Shaw double checked her weapons, taking the time to rack the slide on a couple of John's as well before passing them back. After a few slow passes, Reese finally found a spot where the guards were stationed thinly enough. It would require entry through the roof, though.

"Hey Shaw, how do you feel about a roof entrance?"

Shaw followed his gaze, smirking when she caught sight of the vent on top of the roof. "I love a good shaft." She ignored the subsequent look of mild disgust that Reese flashed her as she pocketed her guns.

The two ditched the car a safe distance from the building and proceeded under the cover of darkness. They easily avoided detection and made it up to the roof without a problem; navigating the innards of the mafia's building would be the real challenge. John stopped an eager Shaw from diving into the ventilation system and pressed a finger to his earpiece as one more thought occurred to him.

"We're here, Finch. They'll probably have surveillance. Can you give us a little help with that?"

Finch had stepped out of the subway for a brief moment and was just returning. He picked up Reese's transmission just as he went to put in the code on the vending machine.

"Of course, Mr. Reese. Give me just a moment."

The pair waited in silence on the roof top for the several seconds it took for Harold to get back to his desk and hack into the security system. "That's odd…" He trailed after a while, looking at the details of the accessed closed-circuit system. "It appears that someone already has."

"Root."

Moments after John had spoken the hacker's name, the pair heard the sounds of gunfire emanating from inside the building below them. John looked slightly amused while Shaw looked relieved, irritated, and worried all at once.

"Speaking of," John added while pulling out his primary firearm and chambering a round, "It sounds like your girlfriend's awake, Shaw. So much for finesse." Shaw did the same beside him, letting out annoyed grumbles as she did so. If they made it out of this scrape, she was going to hurt that woman.

"Damn it, Root."

Her tone was irritated, but even in the darkness there were traces of pride and amusement chiseled onto the assassin's features under the dim moonlight. With a shake of her head, Shaw led the way into the air duct.

This wasn't quite what she was predicting when she'd made that comment about a four-alarm fire those few months ago.

* * *

The walk down the hallway Gabriel had pointed them down was lengthy and uneventful. Root found it odd that Decima would leave prisoners with so little guard…perhaps that was in some way by design. Gabriel was an unnervingly silent companion when he wasn't instructing her on where to go; Root wasn't sure whether or not she preferred his silence.

She had been feeling a dull throb in her right ear for a while now, at least since she'd woken up. It was a reminder that She wouldn't be helping Root even if She could. By now, Root had expected that the Machine was at least partially operational again. If she wasn't hearing anything it probably meant that there were no cell phones nearby. This told her nothing of the operatives' locations; Gabriel had already informed her that none of them would have cell phones.

At least they shouldn't.

There was a faint noise as they proceeded down the hallway. It began so softly that Root wasn't even sure she was hearing it, but the more they walked, the more apparent it became. Gabriel and his youthful ears had picked up on it too, but he wasn't saying anything if he understood its meaning. Root's face brightened and a broad grin covered her face at the realization of what she was hearing. It was the same morse code that the Machine had used to communicate with her when Control had her in custody.

"I'm going to need your tazer for a second." She whispered as she held her hand out to a curious Gabriel. He reached into his pocket and passed her the weapon as the high pitched beeping became louder to both of them.

"It's talking to you, isn't it?" Gabriel questioned rhetorically and Root simply shot him a knowing smirk in response. After a few more steps, she reached to her left around a corner and brought the tazer to an operative's neck. She began to dig through his pockets for the phone as she spoke to Gabriel.

"Do you know what She's saying?"

"No." He shook his head. "I'm not fluent in Morse code."

Root pocketed the phone and the gun she found after checking the mag. "You need to get to a computer and shut down the surveillance system. I'll find the armory."

"How will you find it?"

Root grinned broadly at the boy. "How do you think?"

He shrugged and was about to get to his task when he watched Root go strangely still as the beeping continued. Her demeanor had shifted and there was an urgent look about her as she listened to whatever message she was receiving. He was intrigued by the silent exchange, maybe even a little envious. He had been the analogue interface for Samaritan, but that didn't entail much aside from acting as the avatar for the program. Anything he'd done had been an order from Greer, so this personal relationship that the woman in front of him seemed to have with her machine was foreign to him—fascinating in a way.

"What is it?" He wondered, curiosity getting the better of him. Root's serious gaze drifted over to him and he knew that she wasn't hearing anything good.

"The Russians keep a stockpile of fertilizer somewhere in this building; for the gardens at the hotel. You don't happen to know where, do you?"

That bit of information had been alarming, to say the least. There was only one reason The Machine would've directed her to find it. The building's current occupants either knew about it and planned to use it, or would find it if it wasn't disposed of. Copious amounts of ammonium nitrate in the hands of a group of ex-feds with an axe to grind against their government wouldn't end well. Unfortunately, it seemed that the boy wouldn't be of much help in this area.

"I don't. I haven't been here before today."

Root took a moment to debate her next course of action. There was still the boy to consider. What should be done with him? She still didn't trust him completely, but she was convinced enough that he was a victim in all of this. That being the case, it wouldn't be prudent to split up and leave him vulnerable. On the other hand, they couldn't proceed without shutting down security and he was free to walk the halls as he pleased at the moment. That made him the logical choice to get past the guards and to a computer. Root was also certain that the cavalry would be here soon.

"You need to find it, don't you?" Gabriel stated, looking at her with understanding in his eyes as if he knew what she was about to suggest.

She nodded. "Yes. So, why don't you go ahead to the server room…You'll need this." Root reached into her pocket and handed him his tazer, "I'll go ahead to the weapons. If the alarm hasn't been raised in the next twenty minutes, we'll meet back here and go find the fertilizer."

"And if it has?" Gabriel questioned, cocking his head to one side and squinting up at her curiously.

"I hope you're good at hide and seek, kid."

It had been half an hour since Root had separated from Gabriel and Root had found herself running down a hallway as fast as her long legs would carry her. She had made it to the weapons cache with little trouble, finding routes that enabled her to slip past cameras until they were shut off. There were a few operatives here and there that she'd had no choice but to incapacitate; that was easy enough. It wasn't until she had gotten to the weapons storage and begun to rifle through pistols that the trouble started.

The PA system, which she assumed had been installed either by the Anarchy Council or Decima, sparked to life with the ominous warning of a prisoner escape. Shortly thereafter, the thunder of boots could be heard in the hallways as previously unseen operatives began to pop out of the wood work. She stayed in the armory for as long as she could. There were at least ten men and women who came to check the area that she had been forced to dispose of before she finally chanced venturing out into the hallway.

She made it down two corridors before she ran straight into a group of eight enemies. Not surprisingly, they didn't have weapons trained on her. They wouldn't risk killing her as long as she was still valuable, but she knew that would change if she decided to start shooting. She couldn't take this many in a hand-to-hand fight, and she couldn't afford to turn the situation into a firefight before she had any backup.

So she ran.

At least she tried to.

Root turned around to see a similarly sized group approaching from the rear. She fled down a different hallway and ran until she got to the server room. Thankfully, it had two large doors and lots of cover. She barricaded herself inside and readied her weapons.

Root wondered for a moment where Gabriel had gotten off to. His handiwork was still obvious inside the room. There were four operatives sprawled out on the floor in different parts of the room, each of them with their hands bound behind their backs.

"Good work, kid." Root muttered absently as her eyes scanned over the monitors. She realized looking at the screens that he had been discovered. Either his work had been brought up on screen for everyone to see as he was doing it, or someone had noticed the malfunctioning security system. Either way, he'd obviously managed to escape for the moment. She couldn't say the same about herself just yet.

The pounding on the doors grew more persistent. Root feared it wouldn't be long before they decided she wasn't worth the trouble and tried to get rid of her. With a few more beatings, one of the two doors began to crack under the force of the sustained assault. She jumped slightly when the same door gave way and split down the middle a moment later. Light filtered into the room through the large crack and she could just make out the shape of three operatives; one held a gun in his hand.

Her jaw clenched with anticipation as the assault continued. Only a few more blows stood between her and the group of enemies on the other side. She swallowed thickly, the saliva meeting her dry throat like a single drop of water in the Mojave. Then, the light from outside in the hallway came flooding in with one final strike to the failing door and she stood face to face with twenty operatives. She was alone, outnumbered, and outgunned. Her back was almost literally against the wall. She smiled competitively and heaved a long sigh.

Root turned to Her for guidance, as she often did in difficult times. "A little help would be great right about now."

One of the operatives, the one brandishing his gun, responded with a smirk. "What kind of help do you think you're gonna get from us?"

As he spoke, the phone in her pocket vibrated a Morse code pattern giving Root an escape plan. She grinned knowingly at the man, pulling her two acquired guns out and aiming them at the group. The operatives responded in kind as she spoke, "I wasn't talking to you."

There was a moment of confusion as the statement was processed and Root took full advantage. She got four shots off and ducked into cover behind a large desk with metal siding. The operatives opened fire and began to file into the room. She quickly popped out from her cover and took out a few more, but not enough. By now, the shooting would've attracted the attention of even more operatives. She had kicked the hornet's nest and now they were all swarming in for the sting.

No matter, she had her instructions. She knew what she needed to do.

Root emerged from her cover again and fired a few rounds of suppression fire as she moved closer to her goal. She winced when one of the bullets managed to find her shoulder just before she dropped back into cover behind another desk. It wasn't serious; the bullet missed the artery. She would have to be more careful if she wanted to avoid any further wounds, though.

Slowly but surely, Root crawled her way in and out of cover toward a door at the back of the room. She quickly threw open the door and fled down the narrow hallway and waited for the operatives to follow. It was a more narrow corridor than the other open hallways in the building. Root guessed it was likely a maintenance corridor housing the guts of the building's various power sources. Sure enough, she turned a corner and spotted a piece of machinery that looked similar to an industrial water heater.

With the enemy on her trail, she continued forward, returning fire when needed, and carefully dodging it. Just as she passed the heater, The Machine gave her another set of instructions and she acted once she'd cleared the heater a safe distance. She fired a single bullet into the water heater and thick clouds of steam hissed out at the operatives. With the enemy temporarily overcome by the steam, she swiftly turned left down the nearest hallway and went about putting as much distance between herself and the most immediate threat as possible.

All was relatively quiet for a little while. The distant sounds of gunfire still echoed in the halls, which told her that her back up had arrived. She made her way closer to where the gunfire was coming from while attempting to avoid getting into another tight situation. Root followed a series of turns and then made it to a long stretch of hallway much like the hall that she'd started in. The firing stopped abruptly somewhere close to her right and she felt fear grip her gut. The fear constricted tighter and twisted as she heard footsteps behind her and then felt the sting of another bullet as the sound met her ears. The shot hit her in the back and toppled her to her knees and she flinched when there were two more shots behind her, but the thump of a body hitting the floor soon followed.

She craned her head around to see the heavenly vision of Shaw and Reese turning the corner toward her with Gabriel in tow. Shaw looked at Root with relief in her widened eyes and the hacker could almost see the frustration of the past few hours flowing out of her, and it was mutual. She'd never been this relieved to see either of the former assassins in her life…not even the first time she laid eyes on Shaw after learning she was still alive. There wasn't enough time in the world to savor that moment.

"Let's get you up." Shaw wrapped an arm around Root and lifted her to her feet while looking at her somewhat appraisingly. She was examining Root's physical state, but there was also something else in her eyes that reminded Root of what she had just been thinking about. It was as if she was making sure Root was here and safe…well, mostly safe.

"Jesus Root, you look like shit." Shaw commented, sweeping an appraising eye over her injuries and her disheveled appearance, in general.

Root smiled contentedly before firing at an approaching operative, all the while her eyes lingered on Shaw. She muttered her next phrase through gritted teeth as her back throbbed painfully. "You say the sweetest things."

Shaw simply rolled her eyes as a small smirk played across her face while John cleared his throat to break up the little reunion. They had bigger problems. "These guys seem fond of you, Root." He commented as they turned down another hallway and found themselves faced with more angry operatives. Root couldn't find it in herself to muster up a retort. All that filled her mind now was getting out in one piece. The intense throbbing in her shoulder and back also served to diminish her usual capacity for banter.

They fought their way to the middle of the current hallway in a hail of bullets and flying chips of concrete and plaster. The air was heavy with gunpowder and the floor even thicker with spent shell casings. Gabriel lingered nervously behind Reese. This was outside of his normal comfort zone, to say the least. Given the lack of cover in the hallway, there were several near misses and a few grazes here and there. Eventually, though, luck ran out and Root took yet a third bullet.

"Root!" Shaw was at Root's side even as she nailed the man responsible. Reese struggled to pick up the slack as Shaw tended to Root. She examined the wound as Root's breath came in rapid bursts and her teeth clenched in pain. She had fallen on her second bullet wound when she took this hit. It was a hit to the leg and there was far too much blood for just the couple seconds that had passed. It struck the artery. This wasn't good!

Even though she remained outwardly composed, Shaw looked at Root with horror. Panic and fear seized her as she addressed Reese.

"Quick, give me your belt."

Reese complied and Shaw quieted Root's attempts to speak as she improvised a tourniquet out of the belt. She was firm in her tone. Root _would not_ die tonight...she couldn't. Not after the effort it took to find her. "Shut the hell up, Root." Shaw demanded as she hauled the taller woman up and helped support her weight. "You're not gonna die."

They kept on like that for several minutes. With Root severely wounded and Shaw only able to take shots here and there, John was left to do the heavy lifting. The tide had turned sharply against them and they had become a group of trout struggling to swim up stream…upstream and into the mouth of the bear, it would seem.

John was down to only a couple clips left and Shaw was occupied with trying to keep Root conscious, at this point. "I hate to say it, Shaw, but unless the unexpected happens, your efforts won't matter much in a few minutes."

She didn't give any indication that she'd heard John as she continued to coax Root to listen to her; to focus on her voice. As she spoke, Root's head periodically lolled onto her shoulder as she struggled against the blackness of sleep.

Suddenly, a gas began to emanate from the vents around them. They watched as the operatives closest to the vents fell within seconds. Shaw noticed a blue residue forming on the walls near the vents and her eyes widened with realization.

"It's cyanide!"

Root's eyes had grown fuzzy around the edges and she struggled to focus as Shaw worked around her to tear her shirt sleeves and John did the same for himself and Gabriel. "M' Sorry Sam..." She mumbled when Shaw thrust one of the torn sleeves under her nose and she failed to grasp it properly. Shaw held one sleeve tightly to Root's face and held the other to her own and the group proceeded cautiously down the hallway.

This could only mean that ISA had arrived. They had to get out, and they had to do it before there were more surprises.

Meanwhile, in the safety of the subway, Harold could only listen with baited breath as the action unfolded. He struggled to keep the grip on the cell phone in his right hand. The machine had finally retained its full functions, and with them, the ability to give out numbers. He had just received three numbers, each of them deeply troubling:

Control, Gabriel Hayward, and Root.

* * *

That's chapter ten folks! Thank you for reading, as always! Please R &amp; R!


	11. Chapter 11

Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! I know I say this every chapter, but I truly can't thank you guys enough for supporting my work. It means a lot that ya'll continue to take the time to read and the feedback is great! Keep it coming! Anyway, please R &amp; R!

Chapter 11:

* * *

It was madness; pure, insane, messy disaster. If the intense gunfight they'd been weathering before was controlled chaos, then this was an inferno of pandemonium. The operatives had scattered as soon as they realized the gas seeping in through the vents was lethal. By now, it was a poison fog hanging heavy in the air and the remaining operatives had completely forgotten their grudge in the effort to vacate the toxic building.

Shaw, Reese, and Gabriel navigated through the fumes carefully, guided by Gabriel's knowledge of the layout. Shaw struggled with Root's dead weight and remained intently focused on keeping the sleeve clamped securely over her mouth and nose. Worry settled in her veins as she monitored Root's shallow breathing. She was keenly aware that Root was in need of proper medical attention, and in need of it quickly.

They eventually made it out of the building where the scene was equally chaotic. ISA agents were attempting to apprehend Anarchy Council members. Where they weren't trying to capture, they were killing. There was a series of gunshots close by on their left and they turned to look as Reese aimed his gun. It was Lambert. Only, he wasn't shooting at them. He was shooting at a man Shaw recognized to be agent Grice. The pair exchanged fire briefly before Lambert was gunned down by Grice's partner. He had been the last of Decima's operatives to fall.

The group made it all the way to the car with relative ease. They'd been forgotten in light of a larger threat, it seemed. Given the circumstances, they were more than happy to keep it that way. They had accomplished their goal and there was no reason to stick around any further. John did notice something that piqued his interest just before driving away, however. Around the back of the building there was a group of AC agents hurriedly shoving large bags of something into the back of a truck. He tucked the information away in his brain to be referenced later.

With Reese's lead footed antics, the group arrived to the subway in minutes. The worn out trio was greeted at the bottom of the steps by an overly enthusiastic Bear and Harold, trailing behind and moving as quickly as his limping gait would allow. He was elated to see that they had all managed to get back safely. What he was hearing of their ordeal was less than promising.

"Oh, thank goodness you're all back." Relief settled in partially as he followed them over to the subway car, appraising their haggard appearances. Reese and Shaw were both missing the coats they'd had on before and the sleeves had been ripped off. Shaw's hair was coming out of its usual ponytail and she sported several cuts and scrapes. Reese was in similar condition, the top buttons of his dress shirt were undone and it had been rendered translucent with sweat. He too sported several grazes. In short, they looked like hell.

"Oh dear." Finch's eyes widened as they wondered to a vaguely conscious Root where she lay across John's arms. She was by far the worst. He could make out one wound to her shoulder; there was no telling how many she had that he couldn't see. The most serious one, however, was the wound to her leg.

"How bad is it?" Harold asked at a loss for anything else to say as he eyed John's belt squeezed tightly around Root's thigh. John set Root down on the cot in the subway car and Shaw answered as she rummaged hurriedly through the medical supplies. The confidence in her words was undermined by the rare uncertainty in her voice in a manner that worried both Finch and Reese. "She'll be fine."

Later, when some of the excitement had died down, everyone found themselves occupied. Shaw was still hard at work tending to Root's wounds, though she'd reached a point where she no longer needed assistance from Harold or Reese. Gabriel was left to his own devices in the subway. That was a situation to be addressed later; it was too late at night. Harold would make some arrangements tomorrow. In the meantime, it was decided that he should stay with Finch for the night. Shaw wasn't leaving Root's side any time soon and Reese's apartment wasn't exactly suited for guests.

Finch and Reese had been huddled near the computer in conversation over the day's events for a while now.

"We know Root and the boy were victims, but it seems obvious to say that Control is a perpetrator." John commented when the discussion veered toward the latest numbers that the machine had spit out upon regaining its functions.

Finch wasn't so sure. There was something that didn't add up between the rookie ISA agents that she sent and the fact that Root and Gabriel's numbers were the only two to come up. "I'm not convinced, Mr. Reese. There's something…off…about the situation."

"She tried to kill us, Harold. _Again." _John rasped, offering a placating look when Finch looked as if he were about to interject. "Look, I know we don't get to pick and choose who we save. I'm just saying…if she is a victim, it doesn't sound like such a bad thing."

Harold could concede that every one of them had a right to hold a grudge against Control and her abrasive tactics several times over, but that didn't keep him from thinking objectively about the matter. "Her methods may be questionable at best; I'll grant you that, Mr. Reese. But she is a woman of integrity, at the very least. I don't believe she has ever decided upon a course of action that she didn't see as beneficial to her country. To that end, wouldn't I have received your number or Miss Shaw's if her intention was to have everyone killed?"

Reese paused, thinking about Finch's words. He had said it himself minutes earlier; the ISA agents were capturing members of the Anarchy Council when they had managed their escape. Logically, that meant that the poison gas wasn't meant to kill at all. It was meant to flush them out of hiding like rats out of a nest. Then he remembered the bags being loaded into a truck. He couldn't confirm what exactly it was, but he had a hunch and it wasn't good.

"You do have a point, Finch." Reese stated, leaning back into the chair he was in. "I don't think there's much use in worrying about Control tonight, though. Even for former government agents, planning an attack on the Pentagon will take a while."

"Indeed." Finch agreed, though he wasn't quite speaking about the potential threat. "You three have had a rather busy day. You should get some rest, Mr. Reese."

Reese stood as if he was going to take Finch's suggestion, but lingered for a moment, looking at Finch with a question in his eyes. After a moment, Harold looked up and returned the gaze curiously. "Yes?"

"Well, I was kind of expecting a lecture." Reese stated , scratching the back of his head as Finch arched an eyebrow at him. "I mean…you know what we did. You know what I let Shaw do…in the library."

Ah, yes. There was that elephant in the room. He had wondered when it would resurface. Harold smiled grimly, "Mr. Reese, I may not condone such brutality, but I _do _understand it." His eyes flitted over to the subway car where he could make out Shaw keeping a silent vigil next to Root's sleeping form. "It was in the not-so-distant past that I asked you to spare no one if Greer let Grace come to any harm."

Harold stood himself and John fixed him with a knowing gaze that told him he understood his point. Still, he felt the need to speak it aloud. "My point is, Mr. Reese, we've all had a Grace in our lives at some point. His eyes strayed to the subway car again as Reese bid goodnight and began to walk to the steps. Finch's closing words of the conversation rung with both Reese and Shaw.

"Some of us just get to keep that person a little longer."

* * *

It had been quite a while since she'd heard Reese leave; much longer since they'd returned to the subway. Shaw was exhausted now. She didn't even want to think about how far past midnight it must be at this point, yet, she couldn't bring herself to leave her self-appointed post at Root's side. Gabriel had continually lingered in the subway car since Reese had placed Root down on the cot. He would come in periodically, nervously feign interest in random items placed about the room, then leave as silently as he came.

Shaw figured it was his way of checking up on Root.

She didn't say a word about it; she was too preoccupied with her work, and later, with her thoughts. Had this happened a few months ago, she would've gladly aimed her anger at the young genius, but he had shown her and Reese genuine concern for Root and remorse for his actions as a part of Samaritan earlier. He had a right to feel guilty, worried, or anything else without her snapping at him for something that wasn't his fault.

Gabriel's was not the only presence.

Bear stayed close to Shaw's side, keeping a worried eye on the sleeping hacker. Harold hovered silently at a distance, though Shaw could sense him standing indecisively in the door way of the subway car, unsure whether to intrude or not. She made the decision easy, turning to look at him with a questioning eye as she absently swept a lock of hair from Root's forehead.

"What's the prognosis, Dr. Shaw?" He questioned with a nervous smile, testing the waters a bit. He expected Shaw to be angry, to at least place a small amount of blame on him for Root's current condition. After all, he was with her; they were supposed to go to Hotel Moscow together. He could've stood more firmly against her decision to send him away.

"She'll pull through. She's gonna need more blood, though." To Finch's surprise, there wasn't a trace of accusation, hostility, or anger in either her tone or her posture. There was only fatigue and her stubborn attempts not to show it. Perhaps he expected anger from her because he felt he deserved it.

"That's good news." Finch spoke brightly in spite of his own exhaustion, ushering Gabriel from the train car and commandeering his seat. "So...I assume you heard my conversation with Mr. Reese."

"I hear everything, Finch." Shaw spoke with a devious smirk, reminding Finch of the bug in the library that he was never able to find.

"Yes, well…I'm just curious where _you _stand on the matter, Ms. Shaw."

To her it was a no-brainer. As much as she detested the idea, helping control meant the chance to take another crack at the AC. Control got to stay alive, they helped another number like Finch would want them to, and she and Reese would get to dispose of more pricks for what they did to Root. It was a win all the way around.

"Well…I _really _can't believe I'm about to say this, but...I think we should trust the machine if it wants us to help Control."

Harold's brow shot up in surprise at Shaw's statement. Sure, a vengeful attitude was certainly to be expected from the assassin, but this sudden "trust the machine" rhetoric was quite the departure from her recent cynical attitude toward his ASI.

"That's certainly an intriguing choice of words."

"Yeah, well…things change." Shaw spoke cryptically, not ready to openly admit defeat…admit that her interactions with the machine today had considerably softened her grudge.

"Oh?"

Shaw nodded slightly, turning her attention back to Root for a moment. "You know, I always kinda thought she was crazy to trust it so much, Finch. We all did. But today, I got a taste of what it's like to be her—to depend on the machine. It really does care. At least, it felt that way to me."

"And what do you think?"

Shaw sighed, "I'm not sure what I think anymore." Harold nodded, and the pair lapsed into a companionable silence It was interrupted only by the soft beeping of a heart monitor that had been among many of the medical supplies procured by Shaw for a night like this one. The silence stretched out between them, filled with unspoken words and mutual understanding between two colleagues—two friends. It was Shaw who broke the solitude after several minutes.

"You're not sure either, are you?" Shaw questioned. The tone in her question implied to him that she was seeking some sort of an affirmation of her thoughts on the machine to dispel the lingering vestiges of doubt. That was something he couldn't provide. He had never fully trusted in his own creation, even though he desperately wanted to. Finch simply offered her a kind, knowing smile by way of response.

"I'd like to believe you're right, but…I'm sure you know, Ms. Shaw that I am not the one best suited to assuage any doubt you may still have." He turned his head to regard the hacker's sleeping form. "That is a conversation best reserved for her, I'm afraid." He stood and made his way over to the door of the train car. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be getting some rest. I would advise you to do the same."

He turned to leave, but doubled back as he remembered something, "By the way, there's a spare cot in one of the cabinets if you'd like."

"Go home, Finch." Shaw smiled tiredly, waving him off even as she tried in vain to suppress a yawn.

"Good night, Miss Shaw."

"Thank you, Harold." Three simple words with a myriad of meanings. _Thank you for your effort. Thank you for listening. Thank you for understanding what I had to do._

* * *

Everything felt surreal to Root as she began to rouse from her sleep. She was aware of the sound and light of her surroundings, but her body hadn't quite caught up with her brain, yet. She was momentarily stuck in a sort of limbo between cognizance and slumber. The first thing she became consciously aware of as her body began to awaken was the feeling of wetness on her right hand. Slowly, she realized that it was a dog, but what dog?

Root tentatively cracked her protesting eyes open against the light and looked down at her hand. She realized instantly that she was in the subway car and the dog in question was, in fact, Bear. She cracked as much of a smile as she could manage at the dog and reached out to pet him on the head, surprised at the amount of effort it took. She still felt so groggy and her body was rigid and sore. Despite being asleep for who knows how long, she still felt the exhaustion of the previous night. To put it simply, Root felt as if she'd gone ten rounds with a locomotive.

She looked to her arm at her right and noticed for the first time the IV sticking out of it and up to a bag. She also realized that Shaw was still sitting in the chair nearby. She must've been there for a while; at least long enough to fall asleep. Right now, the other woman sat with her arms crossed and her head tilted back against the wall as faint snores escaped her slightly open lips. Root was happy to see that she'd made it relatively unscathed through the chaos at the harbor. A wave of panic struck when she thought of John, and the boy. Had they also made it out alive? Then there was the problem of the ammonium nitrate. She was almost certain the AC would've gotten away with it if Reese and Shaw hadn't somehow discovered it.

Root tried to sit up. Her intention was to get out of bed, but she found that her body was having none of it. The smallest movements were met with protest from her aching limbs and her three wounds. Apparently, her body wasn't the only one in disagreement with her plans. She startled when Shaw's stern voice spoke from her right side. She thought the woman was still sleeping.

"Root." Shaw didn't even open her eyes to address the hacker. "If you pop a stitch, I'm gonna hurt you."

Root smiled, recognizing a statement that translated roughly to tender concern in Shaw language.

"Well," Root croaked, "Good morning to you to." Root was surprised at how dry her throat was. Speaking was like rubbing two pieces of sandpaper together.

Shaw leaned over and handed her a glass of water from the nearby counter top, smirking wryly as she did so. "It'd be a better morning if I hadn't had to stay up so late because _someone _took three bullets." There it was again, the subtext, the unspoken words tucked in the spaces between words. _You scared the shit out of me. Don't do it again._

For the first time that morning, Root took a moment to truly appreciate Shaw's appearance. She looked like she'd been rode hard and put up wet despite her good condition. There were bags under her tired eyes, her hair was still slightly askew, and she hadn't bothered to treat her own grazes on her arms and face, which by now had scabbed over. Put simply, she looked how Root felt at the moment. All of that aside, there was a notable happiness about her…a certain spark in her eyes.

Root thought back to the sleepless nights she spent after the stock exchange wondering where Shaw was but getting no answer from the machine other than assurance that she was alive. Those nights had her walking around in a similar state to the one the woman next to her was in now. Then there was the overbearing sense of happiness and relief she felt when Shaw had reemerged two months later to help take down Samaritan. Root knew all too well what she had nearly done to Shaw last night.

She offered a sympathetic smile and her best puppy dog face, "Oh…as much as I enjoy it when you play doctor, you didn't have to stay up all night on my account, sweetie." _I'm sorry I scared you. I'll try not to do it again._

Shaw, apparently, was not in the mood for subtext in the form of playful banter. She fixed Root with a stern gaze that sent shivers up her spine and felt to the her as if it would disintegrate her into a million pieces. "I'm serious, Root. I…"

"You what?"

Root watched the battle of emotions play out on Shaw's face. She could practically read every thought on the shorter woman's face as if they were her own. She'd figured out long ago that the Axis II personality disorder was mostly bullshit. Shaw felt quite a bit more than she was ever willing to admit, though she was coming around to admitting more of those feelings. Something Root knew that Shaw felt particularly keenly was fear; particularly fear of loss and fear of vulnerability. She frequently made choices that kept her safe from those two things.

Even now, after being able to admit that she had feelings for Root, and admit that she cared deeply for John and Finch, there were times when Shaw would reflexively choose the safest option in fear of her own emotional vulnerability. The current situation would be no exception.

"I…care… _a lot _about you, Root." _I love you._

Root cocked her head curiously, looking at Shaw with a teasing smile. She wasn't the least bit perturbed by Shaw's aversion to certain feelings. "Oh? And how much do you care, exactly?"

Shaw remained serious, ignoring Root's attempts at banter as she burned through her with an intense gaze. "I don't think I could handle it if you got yourself killed, Root. I could live without Reese, Finch, and Fusco, but I'd never be the same if you didn't make it out of something."

Root was struck by her honesty. She'd been expecting total avoidance from Shaw, and while she had managed to evade a certain three word phrase, she'd openly revealed more of herself in one conversation than in any time previously. It was progress. Though, she had decided it was a personal mission for her to get Shaw to say those three words. Root smirked to herself by way of response,

"I know."

* * *

Alright, another chapter down! I did something a bit different with this chapter. I know it doesn't do much to progress the overall plot, but I just wanted to take a chapter to establish that everyone's okay and show a little bit of team bonding before getting back into the action. I hope you enjoyed the read! Please R &amp; R!


	12. Chapter 12

Hey there! Thank you all for your continued support of my plot bunnies! I think you'll enjoy what I've got planned for this chapter. Anyway, please read and review! I own nothing.

* * *

Chapter 12:

Sameen Shaw was always a creature of action; more show than tell. A creature of feelings and thoughts silently conveyed through a range of touches and facial expressions, as well as a few bullets here and there. Tonight was certainly no exception to that pattern.

It had started innocently enough.

Root had half-heartedly protested Shaw's stubborn insistence upon checking her wounds. She looked over the hacker with an observant gaze as she checked her wounds for signs of infection, ghosted over them with the meticulous care she always used where her medical expertise was called for.

Neither one of them could pinpoint where exactly the shift happened, but in time, the delicate mechanical touch of her surgeon's hands gave way to something different.

Root was powerless against Shaw's advances. Even if she wanted to resist, she wouldn't have been able to deny the attention lavished upon her by the lover's touch of the other woman's hands. There was an odd duality in her actions as her hands moved over Root's body. She prodded roughly at the fresh wounds in a way that conveyed to Root her residual anger, yet she worshipped those same wounds and every other scar she could find with a kind of affection that only the writhing woman beneath her ever saw.

Root's hands tangled in Shaw's thick hair as she moved over her with her mouth, her teeth, her hands. She gave everything she had to show Root just how upset she'd been by Root's recent scrape. Root responded similarly, returning Shaw's attention with unrestrained eagerness. Their positions reversed and Root came to straddle Shaw's hips on the middle of the bed in her minimalist apartment.

Their lips came together roughly and tongues clashed fiercely for several long moments. Root licked, kissed, and nipped at Shaw's neck. She did the same to her chest, trailing down to her toned abs, where she paid special attention to the newest scars in Shaw's collection of old injuries…scars that reminded her of what she could've lost. Her lips ghosted silent kisses across the other woman's quivering muscles like so many prayers to some higher power.

Together, they lost themselves in each other. The fire burned hot around them until they were consumed by it; consumed by their passions. They brought each other to the brink in a haze of rough 0kisses and equally rough touches as the sounds of their exertions filled the room.

After, they wrapped themselves around each other among the pile of sheets on Shaw's bed. Root came to rest with her head on Shaw's chest and a hand just over her heart where the sound and feel of Shaw around her lulled her to sleep just as quickly as it usually did over the recent months.

Sleep came later for Shaw. She took a moment to ground herself similarly with Root's presence in her arms, keeping a palm over Root's heart as she held her protectively. She found the body heat comforting and began to drift to sleep, herself, to the sounds of Root's soft breathing and the noise of the city below. As she faded and her inhibitions began to leave her, she spoke the words that she wasn't yet bold enough to say in her waking hours.

Root remained dead to the world as the sun peeked through the large bay windows several hours later. It was unusual that Shaw was ever up before Root; she preferred to sleep in when she could, and if the machine didn't wake Root, her own early bird tendencies did. This morning, however, Shaw found that she was the first one up. She supposed it had something to do with the fact that Root was still recovering her strength, and without her implant, the machine wouldn't be waking her up any time soon.

Shaw lingered over her for a moment. From the hacker's current position on her side, she was able to see the shoulder wound and the back wound. Carefully, Shaw inspected the bandages of both before leaving a sleeping Root and heading off for the shower. Today would be another busy day. They'd been busy over the last few days tracking the truck from the harbor; she had a feeling today would be the day they came up with a lead.

She emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam several minutes later already dressed in her favorite tank top and a pair of black cargo pants. Her hair hung down around her shoulders, still damp after being toweled off. Shaw was surprised to find Root sitting on the edge of the bed looking into the distance longingly. She knew that look well. It was the look she got when the machine wasn't speaking to her; except it couldn't now, at least not through the implant.

Shaw stood for a moment near the door to her bathroom, lingering out of the way as if she didn't want to intrude on something. She made her approach after a few moments and fixed Root with a sympathetic gaze when the other woman looked at her with a frustrated, helpless expression. It wasn't just the fact that her ability to communicate with the machine had been greatly limited. Her injuries were still very fresh. If they did manage to track down the Anarchy Council today, or in the next few days, Root would be confined to desk duty with Harold. Of all of them, Root probably minded working the desk the least, but she still preferred to be out in the field.

"It's not so bad, Root." Shaw spoke, reaching out to caress the bandaging behind Root's right ear from where the implant had been ripped out. Her tone was somewhere between placating and comforting. "The way this is healing, I'm guessing you could have your implant replaced in at least a week."

"I know that." Root's words were punctuated with an exasperated sigh. Shaw sensed that there was more she wanted to say.

"But…?"

"I feel helpless. I hate it that there's nothing I can really do to help you and John."

Patiently, Shaw spoke reassurances to Root, surprised at how easy the words came and how genuine they felt rolling off her tongue. She took Root's chin in her strong grip, forcing their eyes to meet and for her to see the patience and empathy housed in her own.

"You did your part, Root. You didn't let them have the machine _and _you saved a number. Now it's our turn to finish this."

Before either woman could add any more to the conversation, Shaw's phone chimed on the night stand next to them. She kept eye contact with Root for a couple more moments before reaching over to grab it and looking down at the screen.

"That's Finch. He wants to see me."

Root watched from the bed as Shaw went about the task of finishing her preparations for the day ahead. Shaw's words had the effect of brightening Root's mood somewhat. She tilted her head to one side as Shaw put on her coat, clearly intent on leaving in the immediate future.

"What? I don't get any breakfast?" Root pouted in a teasing manner as she came to stand with the aid of her crutch. "I make you breakfast, Sameen."

"I don't cook." Shaw retorted as she snapped a clip of ammo into a Glock 19 before placing it in her coat pocket. She could feel Root's gaze boring into her and she looked up to see that playful expression on her face.

"Now that hardly seems fair."

Shaw shrugged. "That's life." She shook her head in amusement at the expression of mock offense on Root's face before stepping over to the hacker. She left her with a final searing taste of her lips before she went to the door, pausing with her hand on the handle and fixing Root with a stern expression.

"You should rest that leg up a bit more." She smirked. "I'll call you if anything interesting happens."

"Yes, Doctor."

* * *

The weather was a bit cool out for early spring. Winter had seen fit to hang around a bit longer, it seemed. This didn't do much to deter the newly arrived ducks in central park from begging for scraps from tourists. Harold watched the birds with amusement as they set about the task of acquiring breakfast. He had noted through years of bird watching that humans shared many aspects of their behavior with the fouls. They could be introverted or extroverted, and they often worked in teams to achieve goals. In fact, he knew that many strategies employed by different militaries across the world were based upon the tactics employed by different species of bird.

Teamwork was the very reason he was here. With Root out of commission for the moment, and their situation with Control precarious, it seemed to him that a little bit of teamwork would be necessary. He feared, however, that what he had in mind would not go over well. Particularly not with Shaw.

"You called, Finch?"

Harold startled at the sound of a voice behind him. He put a hand to his chest over his rapidly beating heart as he turned to see who had addressed him. There was Shaw, looking at him with a self-satisfied smile.

"Miss Shaw," Finch gasped. "I really must insist that you stop doing that."

"Sure, Harold." Shaw spoke dismissively in a manner that told him she had no intention of stopping as she came to sit next to him on the bench. She looked around curiously, not expecting to be the only one meeting with Finch. "Where's Reese?"

"I'm afraid Mr. Reese is preoccupied with the responsibilities of his cover identity this morning."

"Why is he still doing the fake cop gig, anyway? He doesn't need to anymore with Samaritan offline." It was a question that had been on Shaw's tongue for a while now, but she'd never really had the chance to address it. Finch looked just as confused by the question as she was.

"I suppose he enjoys it."

Shaw let out an understanding grunt in response as Harold continued to speak. "Speaking of Mr. Reese's cover identity, Detective Fusco has found a lead on the truck we've been searching for. There was a truck with the Sparrow Shipping Company markings spotted at a gas station in Baltimore last evening."

"Okay…" Shaw spoke slowly, not quite understanding how one truck of what had to be dozens could be the one they were looking for. "It's a pretty big coincidence that close to DC, I'll give you that. But Finch, who knows how many trucks they run in that direction daily?"

"That's just it, Ms. Shaw. According to our accountant friend, Hotel Moscow and its legitimate businesses do not operate outside the state of New York."

Shaw perked up a bit at the news. Finding the truck brought them one step closer to the AC. Finding the AC would give them a chance to get their payback. The thought excited her, made her tingle with anticipation all the way into her bones.

"When do we leave?"

Harold cringed inwardly. Here was the part he wasn't looking forward to. "I'm afraid it isn't that simple."

Shaw waited for further explanation, but it didn't come. "Harold?"

She turned to look at him as the awkward silence stretched on, taking the place of what should've been an explanation. He had that look about him; the one he got when he was nervous about something. He sat stiffer than usual and his face looked apprehensive. There was something he didn't want to tell her.

"I'm not gonna like where this is going, am I?" Shaw wondered flatly. Harold turned to her with a look on his face that was all the answer she needed before he spoke again.

"Now, before you get angry, let me just ask that you keep an open mind."

Shaw's only response was to look sharply at him, unamused at the suggestion. Her impatient glare urged him to continue speaking.

"The truckload of ammonium nitrate would be nothing short of a mass casualty event akin to the Oklahoma City bombing if the Anarchy Council were to succeed in using it. If we factor Control's number into that equation, it does suggest that the Pentagon would be the target. However…"

He paused, gearing up for the part he was dreading. The part where he asked her to shadow the woman who tried to have her killed. Shaw ushered him on impatiently.

"However?"

"However, we need to consider the possibility of a home attack."

Realization slowly began to dawn and the slight glare on Shaw's face hardened as her face twitched just slightly. Any excitement she'd felt at the prospect of sticking it to the Anarchy Council quickly disappeared at the idea of having to stick close to someone who had tried to kill pretty much every member of their team. "Are you about to suggest what I think you're about to suggest?"

Finch was slightly disturbed by the crooked, angry smile on the assassin's face as he looked at her. He only hoped she would come to be more understanding of this situation before she decided to punish him for this in some way. His stomach turned with mild horror with the realization that he would be stuck with Root for a while. She would gladly find some way to torment him on Shaw's behalf if she were asked.

"I'm simply asking that you consider the bigger picture of our situation, Miss Shaw." Even as he spoke, he knew that he would rue this day; this moment. "It's true, Control has her own personal security detail, but we have no idea how vast the Anarchy Council's reach is within the government. Some of the people closest to her could very well be part of the plan to kill her."

Shaw huffed as she crossed her arms over her chest, looking rather like a petulant child who had just been reprimanded. "And I'm supposed to just waltz in and make myself part of her detail? How do you think that'll go over, Finch? She knows I hold a grudge for trying to kill me…twice. Hell, the reason she ordered me killed the first time was because she didn't trust me."

Finch paused to think for a moment. He had to admit that little detail did present a bit of a problem, but it hadn't stopped them from working together once before…however briefly. "She may not trust you personally, Ms. Shaw, but she knows you. She knows what you do. She also knows that you're a dedicated soldier who won't waiver from the mission. If you're sent to keep her alive, I believe she knows you'll do that."

That explanation seemed to placate Shaw to an extent. She calmed considerably, allowing Harold to relax in return. There was still a question written on her face as she thought for a moment, and eventually, it found her lips. "Just one more question: Wouldn't it be easier just to tell Control what's going on?"

Harold smirked, "Ms. Shaw, do you know what the most common use of the most common use of wiretapping and surveillance is?"

"I'm sure I'm about to know." Shaw answered with a shake of her head.

"The PATRIOT Act was passed with the intent of stopping terrorist attacks before they happened by those same methods, but it also triggered a surge of illegal monitoring. The most common cases of illicit wiretapping involve officials in our own government spying on political opponents and other enemies."

"So, if we alert Control, it might get back to people we don't want to find out."

"Precisely, Ms. Shaw." Harold answered with finality in his tone, bringing discussion on that topic to a close. Shaw was about to leave, but she'd noticed over the course of their chat that Harold was intently keeping an eye on a woman standing near the pond.

"You looking for a date, Finch?" She joked

"It's a new number, actually. I've been keeping an eye on her since before you arrived."

Shaw turned to look at Harold, surprised that he hadn't told them about the new number. It may have been the fact that she really didn't want to go to DC, or that she worried for Harold, but she found herself offering assistance. "You sure you don't need help?"

"Thank you for your offer." Harold shook his head in that slight manner allowed by his injury. "I believe this number should prove simple enough. Detective Fusco can provide assistance if I require it."

Shaw stood reluctantly, disappointment settling in. She wasn't looking forward to her task. Before she decided to walk away, Shaw made one last offer. "Are you positive?"

"I do believe that you have somewhere else to be." The mirth shining in Harold's eyes as he looked at her only served to rekindle her ire. He was getting far too much enjoyment out of this situation for her liking. At least, that's how she saw it.

"Mr. Reese will join you as soon as he finishes work on his case."

* * *

Shaw's flight to DC had passed by uneventfully, if not a bit too quickly.

Before heading to the airport, she'd made a pit stop back at her loft to pick up a few necessities, taking the time to check Root's wounds yet again. Her hesitance to take on the task of protecting Control made it easy for the restless hacker laying in her bed to lull her into procrastination and what had started out as a quick stop had turned into at least an hour. But, as it always did, reality set in and Shaw was finally forced to disentangle herself from Root with a great deal of reluctance.

That was how she came to be standing alongside the rest of Control's security detail, staring into the woman's irritated eyes. Control was not a woman who enjoyed surprises or games and Shaw showing up with her security team was certainly a surprise.

"Agent Shaw." She greeted in that falsely pleasant tone that was her trademark. "What a surprise to see you here."

"I'm surprised to be here, Ma'am." She punctuated her words with a pointed look at the older woman.

Shaw was a bit wary of the situation. If she wasn't careful, she could guide Control to exposing her reason for being there without even realizing it. Control seemed to recognize the look and ushered the rest of her detail from the office. "I'd like to have a word with Agent Shaw, please. _Alone."_

Once the others had left and the door was shut behind them, Shaw set about searching the room. Control said nothing of it. She knew exactly what Shaw was looking for. "So, what really brings you here?"

"Well…I'm in the business of protection." Shaw muttered distractedly as she stooped to search under a chair. "And I thought I'd give private security a shot." She moved on to the book case behind her while Control sat behind her desk considering her words and actions. Shaw wouldn't be in a position to protect her unless it was necessary. That led to the conclusion that Harold's machine thought she was in danger…but from what? Judging by the fact that Shaw was looking for bugs, she wasn't at liberty to speak freely about it.

"And you just happened to get assigned to me?" Control smirked devilishly. This was gonna be fun.

Shaw snorted. "Yeah, lucky me." Satisfied that there were no bugs she could detect in the office, Shaw sat down across from Control. They still needed to be careful, though. The fact that she hadn't found any didn't mean they weren't there. "It's not every day you get to protect the person who tried to have you killed."

Control chuckled. It amazed Shaw how every word and every gesture, no matter how benevolent in its nature, could seem so utterly threatening coming from the woman. "You hold quite a grudge. Half of Washington probably wants me dead and I'm not bitching about it."

"I guess there's no reason to point out that, that's what I'm here for." She was referring to her gig as part of Control's security detail, but she knew the woman would pick up on the hidden meaning. There was recognition in her crocodile grin as she responded to the statement.

"You'd guess correctly."

The conversation lasted another fifteen minutes before Shaw had been dismissed, leaving to stand outside the office. Unfortunately, Control seemed to have a few ideas in store for Shaw. She had suddenly developed a busy schedule that required her security to be with her at all times since discovering that Shaw had wormed her way onto the detail. She wasn't the only one unhappy about the arrangement. A couple of the other agents on the detail had grumbled under their breath here and there, only to be silenced by a pointed glare from Control.

Shaw even found herself going alone with the woman to pick up her daughter from school at the end of the day!

Her patience was on a razor's edge, so when John's voice chimed in her ear over the comm to let her know he'd infiltrated the Pentagon, she was less than amused. It was a reminder that she'd drawn the short straw on this mission.

Control gave a wry smirk as she kept an eye on the road and an ear on Shaw's quiet conversation with someone she could only assume was Agent Reese. Finally, Shaw put a finger to her ear and shut off communications, ending the conversation.

She let out a long-suffering sigh as the sounds of Julia's video game filtered through her ears. Harold would suffer for this.

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Once again, thank you all for reading! It is always very much appreciated. I hope you will review as well! Also, the beginning of this chapter was my first attempt at any sort of love scene. I know it's not graphic, but I intended for it to be conveyed with a bit more subtlety. Hope it worked out for ya'll!


	13. Chapter 13

Hello and welcome to Chapter 13! Thank you for your continued support and I hope you enjoy the read! Please R &amp; R! I still own nothing but the DVDs.

Chapter 13:

* * *

Harold punched the numbers on the vending machine and waited as the secret passage revealed itself. He had spent most of his day so far tending to his number. Root made a nice substitute helming the computer from the isolation of the secret subway, though she did so with a certain degree of displeasure. Harold sympathized with her, truly, he did, but he was also glad that he'd been spared having to be stuck down in the subway with her for too terribly long.

He sighed as he wandered the darkened corridor leading to their hideout. With Fusco's aid, the number had been taken care of without too many problems and he was finished until another number came up. He decided to check in on Root.

Predictably, Bear came to greet him in his usual enthusiastic manner. Finch was quick to give the dog the attention he wanted before waving him off and progressing further into the subway. His brow furrowed in confusion as he limped.

Odd…there wasn't a sign of Root anywhere yet.

Then he noticed it as he hobbled past the subway car, oblivious to the head of brunette hair visible through one of the windows. Finch's eyes narrowed at his workspace. The remnants of the Chinese food he'd brought Root earlier in the day were strung out across the desk in a sloppy manner that was unlike the hacker. Even worse was the soy sauce packet sitting precariously close to his keyboard.

"Such a mess." Finch muttered, tossing the containers aside and into a nearby waste bin. With his work station in pristine condition once again, he sat down to his computer and started it up. He sat for a moment and looked over his desktop; something seemed a bit off. Finch shrugged it off and pulled up his saved files, his face falling into an expression of confusion and frustration as he did so. Nothing was where he'd left it.

"Root…" He whined, not expecting an answer. Unknown to him, the hacker had the uncanny ability to move as silently with her crutch as she could with two good legs. She had snuck up behind him as he looked over his files.

"Problem, Harry?"

Harold gasped in response. He'd thought he was alone and hadn't expected an answer. He turned to fix her with an agitated expression as his pulse slowed. "I see you've taken the liberty of reorganizing my computer, Ms. Groves."

"The reading material down here is limited compared to the library." Root shrugged. "I had to find some way to entertain myself."

Harold had difficulty believing her explanation. She had been left alone in the subway many times without incident, but this time was different. Root was frustrated by her circumstance: being stuck on desk duty while Reese and Shaw went into danger, and Shaw was unhappy with her assignment. As much as Harold sympathized with Root's desire to take a more active role in their mission, he was certain that this was more than just a way to relieve boredom. He was being punished with a little harmless fun at his expense.

"Please, just…show me where you've moved the files from Detective Fusco."

With a playful smile on her face, Root leaned down over Harold's shoulder and quickly brought up a folder labeled "Noodle Head". Finch groaned out an "oh dear" under his breath at the title. He opened the folder and turned to look at Root sternly and speaking to her like a disappointed parent.

"You realize, Ms. Groves, that I expect you to fix what you've done."

"Of course, Harry." Root spoke, grabbing a cell phone and group calling Shaw and Reese via the VoIP function. "But thanks for reminding me: I have an update."

"Yeah, Root?" Reese's gruff voice sounded over speaker phone.

"Just thought you two should know, the BOLO Fusco put out on that truck turned up another lead. DC Metro officers spotted it minutes ago a few blocks from the capitol building…empty."

There was a quick moment of silence as all four of them took a moment to process the implications of Root's news. If the truck was empty, it meant they might be a bit too late. If the pentagon was the target, it meant that Shaw and Reese were both in danger. Root's gut coiled tightly at the thought. The anxiety of losing Shaw again settled in to lock around her ribs and make her breathing heavy.

"Any definite leads on where the ammonium nitrate might've gone?" Reese asked, suddenly becoming more alert than he already was his place in the bowels of the Pentagon. Shaw stayed silent, but felt the tension in her gut as she listened to the exchange. Control was in no direct danger, but there was a possibility that she would become collateral damage to an immensely powerful bomb.

"No," Root shook her head regretfully, "but I also learned that there were four vans stolen from different parts of DC a couple days ago.

Now _that _sounded familiar to both of the Machine's operatives currently under cover in the Pentagon. "Shaw, does that remind you of anything?" Reese asked urgently.

"It does." Both of them had taken note of a black van with no plates sitting in the parking lot early that morning. Strangely, it had a parking pass.

"I believe I also may have something." Harold pulled up the results of some research he'd been doing while the others conversed. "I did some digging into the John Hancock connection we discovered when we were investigating the mafia. For the most part, he seemed to be a ghost, but I was finally able to find something."

Root's face was a look of surprise as she looked at the image. She knew that face; they all did. "The head of DHS."

"Indeed." Harold nodded, "It seems that the elusive leader of the Anarchy Council and the head of the Department of Homeland Security, James Wiley, are one in the same." As he spoke, he sent the image to Shaw and Reese.

"That would explain the lack of security around here."

"Yeah," Shaw responded. "It was way too easy to get close to Control…both times."

Harold processed the information. This new revelation certainly did reveal a lot of the puzzle, but there was still the matter of Control. How exactly did she fit in all of this?

"Speaking of, Ms. Shaw, have you uncovered any immediate threats to Control's safety?"

She wished. A full three days of sticking with Control and all she had to show for it was a finger that was even more itchy than usual. "Not a one." Shaw sighed in disappointment. "The biggest threat to this woman besides me is hot coffee." As if punctuating her point, Control took a large sip from her mug from where she sat at her desk.

"So, maybe she is a threat?" Reese pitched one more time, still distrustful of Control.

"Not likely," Root spoke. "I hacked into her computer via a government server. There's no information on it that would indicate any direct involvement."

"Blujacking didn't turn up anything suspicious either." Shaw spoke under her breath to avoid being heard by the woman in question.

Harold's brow arched in confusion as he pondered his machine's motives. "So—why then would the machine give us her number if she is neither a victim nor a perpetrator?"

"It's possible that She's evolved again." Root shrugged. "Right, Harold?"

"Yes, I suppose it is possible." Harold nodded. "I did build the machine to learn and evolve over time."

Okay, so, going with that theory, what category would these new numbers be?" Reese wondered out loud and Root took a moment to think it over before answering.

"I guess it's possible She gave us a number that could help us with a larger problem."

By this point Root had migrated into the subway car with Harold on her heels. She had taken the liberty of acquiring surveillance feeds from inside important government buildings. Under the circumstances, it seemed like a good idea to evaluate them. There was nothing suspicious to be seen yet. Still, Root and Finch both had an unsettling feeling about all of this.

"Surveillance doesn't show anything."

"Even government buildings have camera dead zones." Shaw commented. "Seems likely that a group of former government agents would know their way around the cameras."

Finch had to agree. The cameras would only be of so much use to them in solving this problem. There was yet another troubling aspect of the equation to be addressed. John Hancock was in the wind. It made logical sense given the timing of everything that he expected something to happen while he was away.

"That's true, Ms. Shaw. However, I'm afraid there's another problem. James Wylie is out of town on business. It's probable that we don't have much time to stop this." Even several states away, the worry in Harold's tone was almost palpable. Reese and Shaw felt it too. A devastating enough attack on the nerve center of the country's defenses would result in further loss of life.

"Wasn't the building reinforced after 9/11?" Reese asked as a thought occurred to him. Just maybe there was hope that it wouldn't be too bad if they didn't get to the bomb quickly enough.

"Yes, but it still has its weak points."

Reese's shoulders slumped a bit as the hope left him, having been dashed by Finch's answer. He stalked through the hallways on the alert for any suspicious activity. "So, if you were to plant an explosive in the Pentagon, where would you put it if you wanted to inflict mass casualties, Finch?"

"On it."

"And I'll see if Control can tell me the likely places." Shaw answered, turning around to stride back into Control's office as the call came to an end.

It seemed a cloud had settled over the subway. Finch and Root had realized the gravity of the situation and they both found themselves seized with worry for their comrades and for the innocent lives. They'd both done their parts; the rest would be up to Reese and Shaw, but neither had felt so helpless in some time. The very real possibility of losing one or both of their friends had jumped up and slapped them both across the face in such a swift manner that they were left dazed. Finch had gone back to his computer, idly trying to come up with some sort of a solution, while Root restlessly continued to look through surveillance footage.

* * *

Shaw's chat with Control had gone as expected. She had been skeptical at first, but she'd eventually come around. The explanation coupled with the supporting evidence proved enough to sway the woman to their cause.

So it was, nearly half an hour after their call to the subway ended that John, Shaw, and now Controll continued to scour the Pentagon for the explosives. Control had suggested an area within the zone Harold had identified which had recently been vacated for impending renovations; John was heading there since he was the closest. Shaw and Control worked to evacuate the building as quickly and quietly as possible while also maintaining a look out for anyone who seemed to be out of place.

"I found it, Shaw." Reese spoke, breaking the radio silence after another few minutes of searching. He'd made his way to the vacated area of the complex on the inner most wall of the North side. There was a large atrium-like room with a high ceiling. Stepping into it, John first saw the painting tarp covering the floors, but then he saw the bags. But that wasn't the only thing.

"And we have a problem…"

The fertilizer would be explosive enough, but he also smelled gasoline. He guessed it would only take a small spark to set the whole thing off. The people who set this up had taken care of that, and then some. The bags appeared to be sitting on some sort of plate. It took Reese a moment to figure out what it was, but then he saw the bundle of pipe bombs and realized it must be a pressure switch. His eyes scanned over the pipe bombs and he noticed the timer.

A pressure switch _and _a timer. Talk about over kill. He was really only left with one option; defuse the bomb.

"How's that evacuation coming?" Six minutes. Only six minutes to work out this complex wiring system. The red numbers on the display looked up at him tauntingly.

"The blast zone's clear. We can get the rest clear after we take care of that bomb."

Both Harold and John tried to protest that idea, but they were too late. Shaw and Control were rounding the corner into the room a moment later. The pair in the subway were both mortified to see the pair of tracking blips in the same room. Finch set to work analyzing the photo of the detonation mechanism that Reese had sent him as he tried to find a means to detonate it. It was a complex system and would take some time to defuse; possibly more time than they had.

"There's nothing here that calls for three of us, Shaw." Reese protested, trying to make her leave. In the absence of any other danger, he knew it would be a difficult task. Thankfully, Root chimed in. Her voice was thick with terror even though she retained her usual composure. "He's right, Sam. That's not the only bomb. Something just came up in surveillance."

A moment later, Shaw's phone was buzzing in her pocket. She pulled it out to see the footage in question. Control leaned over to take a look with a questioning eye, immediately recognizing the scenery. "That's the basement of the Capitol building…" Frankly, it made her sick to her stomach that this was happening not only on her watch, but right under her nose.

Shaw looked at John with a sudden seriousness. "Reese, leave the bomb. We need to get to the Capitol building."

"You two can handle that." John protested. "Someone has to stay with this one. If we let it go, it could leave the country vulnerable." He ignored Harold's protests in his ear, telling him to get out, that lives had been saved. No one would die if it blew up. That just wasn't true. This bomb had the ability to bring down the systems that protected national security. People could die as a second hand result of that, and he just couldn't allow it.

Shaw refused to leave, noting that the timer was down to four minutes and thirty seconds. She voiced her own disapproval of his need to be an altruist. "Hey, there's no dead in team. Remember?" Her throat constricted around the words and her heart thumped painfully in her chest as she fought to keep the moisture tingling the corners of her eyes at bay. Was this what it felt like to be sad? The feeling was far stronger than she remembered.

John didn't even pause from his work. He spoke to her mechanically, as if he were forcing his own feelings down and focusing all of his willpower on the task at hand. "Sometimes there is, Sameen. You say that, but when it comes down to it, you and I are soldiers, and soldiers will die for the mission if necessary."

"Then let me take a crack at this." Shaw spoke, moving forward in an attempt to take John's place in front of the bomb. "You're less expendable."

Root froze in pure horror as she listened to Shaw's words. It was all of her worst nightmares coming true as she was forced to listen. She silently thanked John when he vehemently protested once again.

"No!" Shaw was surprised when Reese spun around sharply to look at her.

Three minutes; fifty seconds.

"We've looked down that road once before, Shaw. The team could go on without me, but without you, our operation would fall apart. The only thing that kept that from happening before was knowing you weren't dead."

Even as they fought their sadness and their worry, Root and Harold thanked John for his persuasive effort and continued to listen with increasingly baited breath. This was becoming far too tense, and Harold was quick to let them know.

"Ms. Shaw, it is imperative that you take Control and get to the Capitol building. There is nothing more you can do there."

Shaw affirmed his order with a nod, locking eyes with Reese for several more moments before reluctantly turning back the way she came.

"Stay alive, John." She spoke. It was her own little way of bidding him goodbye without fully accepting what was to come.

Three and a half minutes later, the sound of an explosion thundered through Root and Harold's ears as they sat in the subway waiting with anticipation. They both emotionally collapsed in on themselves in the same manner as the pentagon as two words were displayed on screen accented by the two disappeared GPS blips.

SIGNAL LOST

* * *

Bear had perhaps taken it the hardest.

One defused bomb and multiple gunfights after Shaw and Reese had managed to foil the AC, Shaw was dragging her worn out body down the steps leading into the subway. _Alone._

As usual, the Malinois came bounding to her with his ears perked up and his tail wagging. Usually, she would've been as excited to see him as he was to see her, but this time she couldn't muster up the energy. She was bogged down with exhaustion and grief.

"Hey." She spoke softly, kneeling in front of the dog and petting him along the head and neck in comforting strokes. Bear seemed, at first, confused for a moment as they stared into each other's eyes. Gradually, his ears flattened against his head and his tail stopped wagging. It was as if he understood instinctually what had happened. Shaw was surprised to find that she felt guilty. As well as they got along, Bear had always been Reese's dog and she'd failed to bring his master back.

"I'm sorry, buddy." She spoke softly, as Bear let out mournful whines.

She stood after a few moments and made her way into the subway where the air was overwhelmingly somber. Finch sat with his back to her, trying and failing to keep himself busy at the computer. Surprisingly, Fusco sat on the bench in a state of deep thought looking every bit as somber as Finch. With a wave of guilt, Shaw guessed that Finch must've informed him of their losses. Somewhere in all the chaos between the Pentagon and the Capitol, both her cell phone and her earpiece had been damaged, leaving her no immediate way to contact them. It was natural that they would've assumed her dead as well.

Shaw ignored Finch and Fusco in favor of seeking out a certain hacker. She knew she would have a lot to answer for.

She stepped over into the subway car and found Root rubbing tiredly at her eyes. She had that same helpless look about her from a few days ago. Shaw could only imagine the 'what ifs' and the self blame that must've been going through the hacker's head. None of those things could've changed today's outcome, Shaw knew. She expected it wouldn't be so easy to convince Root of that. The more important thing at the moment was the need Shaw felt to put some life back into those painfully bloodshot eyes.

Shaw lingered for just a minute longer in the doorway of the car before making her presence known. Root's head shot up in surprise as she spun around to see Shaw standing there. She looked at her with an expression of awe for several moments before hobbling toward her without even bothering to grab the crutch as relief flooded her veins. It was just her and Shaw in that moment; no bullet wounds, no bombs, no death. Just them.

Shaw beamed up at Root, intent on making some smartass comment to start off their usual thinly veiled way of speaking, but Root interrupted her. She threw her arms around Shaw's neck and held her tightly, letting the fear and the anxiety of the day give way to relief as Shaw's scent invaded her.

Shaw stood wide-eyed for a moment, not quite sure what to do; hugging was new for them. Slowly, she returned the embrace, pulling Root's frame tightly to her, and the awkwardness slipped away as she did so. With Shaw's arms around her, Root was frantically crying and screaming into her neck as all of the pent up emotions came flooding back. Then she was pushing her away and shaking her by the arms.

Both of them remained completely oblivious to Harold's presence as he and Bear shared their grief.

Shaw just stood there, taking everything Root had to throw at her. She was too happy to be back. She listened as Root let out a barrage of 'What ifs' and 'How could yous' until finally she'd almost worn herself out and let slip the three words that Shaw had been averse to speaking or hearing openly.

"Damn it, Sameen." Root looked down at her with those watery doe eyes that had found their way into Shaw's heart somewhere along the way. She pleaded through her gaze for Shaw to understand what she meant to her; what it would mean to lose her…that John wasn't wrong when he said the team would fall apart because she wouldn't be able to stand being around everything that reminded her of Shaw. "I love you."

And Shaw did understand. She'd come to understand a lot about Root over the past week, from her faith in the machine, to her feelings. She found that if situations were reversed, she'd feel the same about losing Root. So she just grinned at the other woman as she spoke her feelings openly for the first time.

"I love you too, Root."

They all still had a long way to go before this loss would stop hurting. Shaw, in particular, was surprised to find that it actually stung her quite a bit. They would each have to come to terms with it in their own time. Finch might bury himself in his work, ignore the machine for a while, then slowly begin to move on. Against Root and Harold's wishes, Shaw would probably hunt down any of the remaining members of the Anarchy Council in a bid at revenge. Violence was always the best way to grieve, in her mind.

And Root.

Much like Finch, Root would try to find a way to distract herself from the pain of loss.

All of that aside, they still faced a challenge. The attack on the Pentagon had succeeded despite Reese's best efforts. They all knew that they would no doubt be left to pick up the slack of a momentarily weakened defense from their place in the shadows. But, as grueling as the road ahead would be, one thing was certain:

Something good had come of this mess.

Root watched with a questioning gaze as Shaw stepped away from her. She ignored Fusco and Harold's comments and questions as she went over to the cabinet beneath the desk where she knew Harold kept the top shelf liquor. Root watched after her, not needing the machine in her ear to tell her what Shaw was doing.

Shaw procured six glasses, filling two and sitting them side by side on the desk before filling the rest and handing them out. The two glasses remained as a tribute to their fallen friends.

Carter. Reese.

Two people who lived to protect others.

Each loss was just as bitter as the other.

Root eyed the two glasses curiously. She'd heard a bit about Carter in the time since being released from the cage. She'd come to learn that Carter's was the death the Machine had first warned her of when Harold had stubbornly insisted on keeping her locked up. She suspected he still blamed himself for it. No doubt he would blame himself for Reese, as well. She smiled sadly at the thought, toying with the glass in her hand.

Just another Dillinger.

After a few moments of silence, Shaw looked to Finch expectantly. He raised his glass and the other three followed suit. He spoke with a voice that did little to hide the tears he was keeping at bay.

"To John."

* * *

Well damn, I killed Reese...Or did I? You'll have to wait until after the weekend to find out! As always, I hope you enjoyed it! Please R &amp; R!


	14. Chapter 14

Hey there! Welcome to the final chapter of CTT! I hope you've enjoyed the ride! Thank you all _so very much _for reading and for giving me feedback. I hope you like this last installment and I hope you'll continue to read my work. Please R &amp; R!

* * *

Chapter 14:

They were all well accustomed to leading lives of anonymity; fading into the shadows to start anew when the situation required. There was always the possibility in their line of work that they would fade from existence entirely while the people they protected daily remained oblivious. No funeral, no fuss, no tears—just the world continuing to turn on its axis. It was the unfortunate pitfall of Reese's cover identity, however, that the NYPD would inevitably want to dig into the disappearance of one of its detectives. They realized quickly what needed to happen.

Detective John Riley had to die.

Under the cover of night, Root and Shaw broke into a morgue to acquire a body, specifically that of a homeless man similar in age and build to Reese. They met Fusco and Finch on a road in the wooded area of upstate New York. Fusco placed Reese's badge and service weapon on the body before it was placed in the driver's seat of his car. They rigged the car to run into the trees and then put the final touches on their deception by lighting the car up with gasoline.

The car was found a day later and the case had been ruled a homicide, though it was quickly closed due to a lack of any probative evidence. They'd been careful not to leave any trace of anything that could lead back to them.

The funeral was just a few days after their staged accident.

They all felt the same strangeness as they lingered behind the congregation. They were witnessing a rarity; people in their line of business rarely got proper burials when they passed. They were just gone. In a sense, Reese was lucky that way. _They _were lucky. This funeral was for Detective Riley. The people here were honoring the memory of the false identity of a man they never really knew with the body of a homeless man inside the casket, to top it all off. _They _had been given the chance through this charade of a funeral to say their last farewell to their fallen friend. In that respect, they were lucky.

Fusco was the only one of the group actually in attendance among the congregation of New York's finest.

He was seated on the front row with the same bitter scowl on his face he had sported during Carter's service. None of this was right. A fake body for a fake funeral for a fake identity? He was the only one sitting here who actually knew the man and not the cover identity. He may not have been a cop in the legal sense, but he had still been a damn good partner.

First Joss, then Reese. Two partners gone in a little over a year.

The thought made him burn with fury. He wanted to rage at the world, to hunt down every criminal he could find on the street and kneecap them like John would if he were here. But part of his brain reminded him that Joss wouldn't have wanted that. That kind of behavior isn't what she died for. And Reese…well, Reese would get revenge, maybe even drink himself into oblivion. They were the angel and the devil sitting on his shoulders right now. He didn't know what to do with himself, but he did know one thing:

He was done with partners. Damn them to hell and back; they only caused him pain.

Detective Riley had no known family, so when the time came to fold the flag, it was passed to the closest thing he had to family. His partner. Fusco had come out of his angry daze long enough to gracefully accept it, but he knew he didn't want it. That was how it came to sit in the subway on top of the armory locker as a permanent reminder of Reese.

Finch had left it up to Root and Shaw to decide what to do with it; he wasn't ready to fully accept the hole left in their team quite yet. Shaw had shrugged and passed it off to Root, not really comfortable with this sort of sentimentality. Root, in turn, had deemed the armory a fitting place to put it.

Shaw stood back and looked at it for a moment after putting her guns away, pushing down the sudden urge for violence.

She left the armory with a grim shake of her head and went to Harold.

"What are they saying now?" She wondered in reference to the news feed that was streaming over Finch's computer from DC. She hadn't really kept up; didn't have the desire to hear all the media speculation about terrorism and war and who's next. Didn't want to see the footage of the damaged Pentagon where she lost a friend. But curiosity was an insatiable beast, sometimes.

"The government is calling it 'extremist terrorism'." Finch sighed. "Evidently, they've elected to place the blame on Middle-Eastern terrorist groups."

"Not surprising." Shaw shrugged. "It does seem like the sort of thing they would pull off."

Harold hummed in agreement. Shaw could almost see the gears turning in his head as a short silence fell over them. None of them liked the ease with which the masses were swayed by a government desperate to save face, but…such was the nature of the job; continued self-sacrifice for people who remained oblivious to the workings of the real world. Harold couldn't speak for the rest of the machine's operatives, but he was beginning to question if maybe that price wasn't too high.

"What I don't understand is the method to this group's madness. Until a few days ago, they had taken a purely pacifist approach."

Shaw scoffed in response. "C'mon Harold. Are you really gonna tell me you don't know damn well that everything evolves? Stalkers become killers, and killers turn into serial killers eventually."

Finch nodded, understanding her point. He spoke absently, thinking out loud more than he was addressing Shaw. "They were just learning before."

Shaw nodded, growing curious about the other loose ends that remained of this ordeal. "So, what about the accountant?"

"While I'm fairly certain that Mr. Rezniczek's role in all of this was more collateral than intentional, Detective Fusco and I agreed that he still needs protection. He made a deal to testify against the Drugonov family and their gambling ring in exchange for entry into the Witness Security Program."

At Shaw's tentative expression Finch was quick to add further explanation. "Oh, don't worry. I put the detective in touch with some trustworthy Deputy U.S. Marshals I know who I've surmised are inspectors with the program."

"And the kid?" Finch noted the special curiosity on Shaw's face and in her voice. She seemed to have developed a reluctant respect for the young hacker after the details of his involvement with Samaritan had been revealed to them. More precisely, after his part in Root's near escape had been revealed. He'd seen the two at Root's side during and after Shaw's operation on her. To Finch's knowledge, there had been no words spoken between them since they came from the harbor, but there had certainly been bonding.

The smile that reached across his face misses his hollow eyes. It did his wounded heart good to think that the orphan boy who used to be their adversary might have earned the continued concern of his team. Shaw was never one to ask about things she was indifferent about.

"I enrolled him in a prep school up state…I think you might be familiar." He smiled wryly and Shaw smiled back with a shake of her head. The mood took a solemn turn again as they both realized it was the first time his tone had sounded anything close to teasing in days. They fell silent again, losing themselves to their thoughts as the coverage of the DC bombing rattled on.

The quiet stretched out before them; a vast emptiness filled with all the emotion of the past several days. There was an unspoken understanding between the two: don't talk about John. Shaw knew Reese had always been Finch's favorite, his right hand. She felt awkward having to permanently take up that role, if she could even say that's what she was doing. They hadn't received an irrelevant number in days. Shaw suspected Harold was ignoring the machine again.

"You know, Finch, ignoring it won't make it go away." Neither one was quite sure which 'it' Shaw was referring to: the machine, John's death, life in general. Finch chose to interpret it as the former, responding to her statement with an apathy in his tone that disturbed Shaw. As if it didn't matter if he decided to shut out the numbers.

"In light of recent events, I thought we could do with some time off."

"You mean the same grievance leave we got after Carter died?" He turned to look at her sharply and she could tell she was toeing some sort of line. She didn't care. In both cases, he was choosing to play god with peoples' lives just to soothe his own grief. She wouldn't treat him with kid gloves. This was the job. Any given day, one of them might not come back, but the rest had to be able to keep on going.

"Something like that." Harold answered, his tone measured as he stared her down with his bereaved eyes.

"Yeah, well, I'm still here. If I wanted a break, I would leave." She didn't need to explain that. She knew by the look on Finch's face that he understood the reference to Reese's leave of absence after Carter's death; the lengthy period of carrying on with the numbers while John drank himself to the bottom of the bottle. She had missed him then and she missed him now, as much as she told herself she didn't. "As long as I'm here, I'm gonna do what you first hired me to do."

Shaw had expected more of a debate, but Finch seemed to be utterly devoid of any fight. With a heavy sigh, he reached out and pushed a button on his keyboard, bringing up the latest number. She read over it quickly then proceeded to the armory. Her eyes flitted to that flag above the locker once again as she retrieved her weapons. From the looks of it, she would need a little back up for this number. Root was gone to have her implant replaced, at the moment so the dog would have to do.

"Bear, _komen_."

* * *

Slowly, the time passed like that with the team continuing to work efficiently, yet struggling inside with the loss. A few days became a week, a week stretched on into a month, and the days passed until the numbness gradually began to fade. The wound slowly began to heal.

In those first few weeks, Finch had predictably buried himself in his work. It was rare that Root or Shaw ever saw him without his face stuck in his monitor and his body glued to the chair as an attack of carpal tunnel syndrome on his typing fingers seemed increasingly more likely.

In between numbers Shaw had taken up hunting. Her prey was anyone and everyone she could find who had connections to Anarchy Council. She went alone, with Root, sometimes with Bear; it didn't matter. Though, she knew Root and Finch both preferred that she didn't go off on these vengeance fueled missions on her own. She thought that maybe if she tried hard enough, she could hurt them bad enough to get rid of the incessant gnawing that had crept its way through the cracks in the walls around her heart. The only reprieve she got from those feelings for the first couple of weeks was Root.

Like Finch, Root needed a distraction, and her distraction was Shaw.

There came a time almost daily when Root would get a certain glint in her eye—a needy, vulnerable look of sorts. It was one that Shaw searched through her rolodex of Root's various moods and expressions for and couldn't quite place. What followed soon after was equally baffling on the first few occasions, until she stopped thinking about it entirely and welcomed the distraction. The look would pass over Root's face for just a moment, sometimes longer. Then she would proceed to drag Shaw away into the nearest area of seclusion and bear down on her with kisses and touches that smacked of frustration and desperation among so many other feelings.

In the midst of these impromptu liaisons, there was always one thought that Shaw could read from Root through her actions as clearly as if it were in her own head.

_It could've been you._

She felt a twinge of guilt for just the briefest second each time she picked up on the thought. It shouldn't have been either of them; she should've done more to get Reese out. He was never going to finish defusing the bomb in time. She should've made an effort to let Root and Finch know she wasn't dead instead of just lumbering into the subway on tired legs. After all, that is where the source of the thoughts on Root's mind seemed to lay. But she hadn't done those things. It was the best she could do now to offer comfort to the hacker.

Fusco was a very different matter. No one knew quite how to handle him. He didn't know John quite as well as the rest of them, but he seemed to have taken the loss the hardest once the reality of it had set in. He still offered his help when it was required, but he was never in contact beyond that, and speaking to him was like walking on egg shells. Shaw noted during a stakeout shortly after the funeral that he smelled faintly of whiskey…a scent distinctly out of place for a man who claimed not to drink.

There was also the night she got a call from Lee. She'd left him with her number after the HR incident in case he needed help and his dad wasn't around. It was around two in the morning and she'd only just gotten to sleep when it came. She never imagined when she gave him that slip of paper that he would be calling about his own father.

When she made it to Fusco's apartment, he was outside the door pounding on it and shouting unintelligible pleas for Lee to let him in as the tears streamed down his face in his drunken state. The empty bottle of bourbon in his right hand spoke volumes to Shaw about what kind of night it had been. After telling Lee to unlock the door and get inside his room, she guided Fusco to the living room. At first, it seemed to her that he might've been too drunk to recognize her, but soon, he looked at her with an accusing eye and began to hurl accusations at her.

Had she been less sleep deprived, she might've been more understanding, but Shaw was in no mood to deal with it that night and she gave it all back. She gave it back until the next thing she knew, she was telling him to man up and pull himself together for his kid and he was throwing a punch at her face. She dodged it and nailed him square in the nose, knocking him out cold for the night.

He didn't seem to remember the events of that night, but he was no less distant to her, or to any of them. It was as if he was trying to push them away, but he couldn't at the same time. Shaw got the distinct impression that he did in fact resent her more than the rest of them. Out of all of them, her relationship with Fusco had become the most strained.

And so it went until three months had passed and team slowly began to get on with their lives. They were surprised that they hadn't really seen a sharp increase in the numbers as expected since the bombing. Root, having retained her link to the machine, revealed that it was because She had enlisted the aid of the many other operatives, as well.

One day, Root and Shaw walked down the sidewalk having just wrapped a difficult number. They walked side by side, both with a hot dog in one hand. Shaw's left hand was wrapped with Bear's leash as he strolled contentedly between them. They walked that way in silence for the most part; just taking in the summer air, the movement of the city, and the tourists. There was something that had been burning on Root's mind for a while now; something that there either hadn't been time to address or it wasn't appropriate. She figured now was the best time she'd had in a while.

Might as well seize opportunity.

"So…" She spoke slowly, and Shaw's eyes drifted over to her, questioning. "You and Her seem to be getting along these days."

They walked along in silence for several steps as Shaw considered an answer. When she finally did speak, the cryptic response was delivered around the last mouthful of her hot dog. Root smirked slightly at the crass display.

"We came to an understanding."

"Oh?" Shaw made a display of rolling her eyes at the wry smirk Root was wearing. "You know…I knew you wouldn't stay mad forever, but I figured I'd have to intervene at some point." Root teased, earning a close-fisted love tap to the shoulder from Shaw, who scoffed in response.

"Sure Root, like there would be a damn thing you could do about it if I really wanted to hold a grudge."

They lapsed back into an easy silence. The thoughts of the events that brought them to this conversation settled over them both. Shaw thought about getting shot at the NYSE; how she'd been so sure she was just a pawn in the machine's strategy. She thought about how that made her resent the machine, not because of how she felt, but because she knew Root was always so sure that the machine cared; sure that it didn't see them as objects.

Then there was the abduction.

She'd been livid. Outraged. Furious. Fit to be tied. Every angry adjective under the sun, really. And she wanted to blame the machine….oh, did she want to so badly. But, she was still rational enough to know that the machine had been rendered powerless, and therefore, blameless in all of it. Then, she got a taste of what it was like to _be _Root; to communicate with and rely on the machine.

"You know," Shaw spoke after several minutes of silence. "I guess you did intervene, in a way."

Root looked at her with a raised eyebrow as if she was expecting more of an explanation.

"The machine helped me—us—find you after it started to come back online." Root smirked at Shaw as if she knew, or at least suspected that already, but she kept talking. "You always said all that stuff about how she cares, but none of us ever really bought it. I didn't until she started talking to me; telling me how to find you."

"You heard it, didn't you?" Root asked knowingly. There was a certain reverence in her voice that she reserved for speaking of The Machine. "In Her voice?"

Shaw stayed quiet, but nodded in response. She knew what Root meant by 'it'. That strangely motherly quality that had an edge of concern to it. A tone that was somehow unsettling and comforting all at once coming from an artificial intelligence. They both thought back to that morning in Shaw's apartment when Root had promised to tell her why she chose to trust the machine. It no longer seemed necessary at this point, but she still felt a need for Shaw to know something that she hadn't divulged before.

"Do you still believe she sacrificed you? Knowing what you know now?"

"Still trying to work that out, actually." Shaw said, shaking her head slightly as if clearing extraneous thoughts. "How could she care, but send one of us to a very likely death?" It was a question she'd asked several times since her return, but now it lacked any bite. Now, there was only genuine confusion.

"If it was the only option."

Shaw felt compelled to meet Root's gaze at the assured seriousness of her tone.

"I still struggle with Her choice, myself. But you have to know…there were almost a million different options. The one she chose was the only one where you didn't end up the only survivor." Even now, so many months later, she felt her throat tighten at the thought of none of them making it alive from the stock market; of Shaw and Bear being the only two left.

"Also, the Machine never actually predicted that you would be the one to push the button." At that, Shaw's head jerked so that she stared at Root. Her furrowed brows silently asked for an explanation. Root smiled, feeling a bit of pride in Shaw at what she was about to say. "The Machine was able to calculate that you had the best chance of survival, but not even She predicted that you would be the one to push the button."

"So, who did she predict would do it?" Shaw's voice was curious, but there was an edge to it that told Root that she already had a good guess."

"Me."

Shaw opened her mouth to respond, there were still some things that didn't quite add up. Why had the machine told the operatives who'd helped her to be at the stock exchange at that precise moment? How did they know who she was? She filed these questions away to be addressed later when Finch's voice rang in her ear over the comm.

"Ms. Shaw; Ms. Groves, are you two preoccupied at the moment?"

"What is it Harry?" Root wondered. Both women noted the urgency in his tone.

"There's something you need to see."

The pair took a moment to look at each other with curiosity at Finch's vague explanation before making their way back to Chinatown.

* * *

When the women made it back down to the subway, they found Finch at his usual spot at the desk looking very interested in a news stream. At first glance, they thought it was just old footage, but then James Wylie's face popped up on screen as the reporter's words painted a clear picture.

Someone killed him. More than that; they outed his operation.

The reporter droned on and on about the explosion at the Pentagon, the attempted bombing of the capitol building, the Anarchy Council, and James Wylie's involvement with all three. It was clear to the three standing in the subway exactly who had designed all of this, too.

"Had to be Control." Shaw spoke absently, absorbed in the footage. "She was pretty pissed about everything when I left."

The reporter's mentioning of a single black SUV with government plates leaving the scene only furthered the theory. Finch felt himself nod at Shaw's suggestion even as confusion settled in. "Yes, but to what end would she allow her vehicle to be seen? She's as efficient as the agency she commands. Allowing her vehicle to be seen on camera seems a bit out of the ordinary."

"Not if she's trying to send a message." Shaw smirked, surprised to find herself on the same page as her old employer for once. Root and Finch looked at her expectantly. "She's letting what's left of the Anarchy Council know that she's kicking ass and taking names."

"Yes…" Finch muttered. "And painting a rather large target on her back in the process."

"Not as big as you might think…"

The three froze where they stood in front of the desk. It couldn't be. It was unlikely that they had all imagined it, and that familiar gravelly tone sounded far too real to be any kind of illusion. For a long moment no one moved. Each of them was afraid to turn around only to be disappointed. Finally, they turned around together and the sight of John standing only feet away greeted them.

"Mr. Reese…" Finch gasped as Shaw and Root looked on with their mouths open slightly in shock.

There he was standing in front of them, real, and every bit as alive and intact as before the explosion. The only difference, they noted, was that he now favored his left leg a bit. Root started to question him, but was cut off by Finch.

"How-?"

"Am I to assume by your choice of words, Mr. Reese, that you know something about this?" He asked, gesturing toward the news coverage. He looked lighter than Root and Shaw had seen him look in months, and they all felt the same.

Reese shrugged in response. "I might've helped a little." He waved Finch off when he tried to press further on the issue. "I wouldn't worry too much about it, Finch. Control seems to have a good handle on the situation." He kneeled down to pet Bear, who, up to this point, had been patiently waiting for attention from his master. The other three continued to watch him in amazement; they still didn't quite believe their eyes.

"How on earth did you survive that blast?" Root asked with pure befuddlement tinging her voice. "That was enough explosive to level two city blocks."

John looked up at her with a grim smirk as he continued to rub at Bear's belly for another moment, coming to stand a few seconds later. "I tried to get away when I realized I wasn't going to defuse the bomb. I managed to get most of the way out of the blast zone, but the debris took me down. I don't remember much after except being pulled out and then waking up in a private hospital room with Control at the foot of my bed."

"Why would she bother to save you?" Shaw asked with a slight tone of incredulousness.

"I don't know." Reese shrugged. The gesture implied that he didn't really care, either. "She said something about 'making things square.' Then she said I could help her make things even with the people responsible for the attack."

"Clearly you did." Finch stated, still eyeing John as if he might fade from existence right before his very eyes at any given moment. Root and Shaw had similar sentiments. They all had thoughts and questions racing through their heads at a thousand miles an hour, but none of them could seem to collect the thoughts enough to articulately express them. Reese seemed to recognize that. He remembered feeling similarly when everyone had been together for the first time in months back in the subway after the fall of Samaritan…after watching Shaw get shot. He understood what his friends were feeling perfectly.

John simply nodded in acknowledgement at Finch's words and excused himself to turn back to the armory. He really wasn't good at this sort of emotional reunion stuff, anyway. To his surprise, it was Shaw who stopped him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm glad you're back, Reese." Just as a genuine smile started to spread over his face at her touching sentiment, she continued to speak. "I like taking the lead in the field and all, but I suck at being you."

The smile came back and he shook his head in amusement. He understood what she really meant and knew that this was the best welcome back he could hope for from her. Honestly, Reese couldn't wait to get back out into the field, but for now he was content to be reacquainted with his team.

They exchanged a look of understanding between them. If anyone could understand how good he felt to be back in familiar territory after months away, it would be Shaw.

"It's good to be back, Sameen."

* * *

And that's that. I hope you enjoyed the read. Thank you all for sticking with me through this story! Please R &amp; R!


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